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THE 


YOUNG   LADIES 


OrFERING; 


OR 


{Sims  m  iFiRmn  asjid  iPosmYc 


BY 

MRS. 

L.    H.    SIGOURNEY; 

AND    OTHERS. 

,USTEA^ 

m  WITH  S^^^i^-L  E 

NGRAYII^ 

1           >   D    .-) 

,  J      » 

•♦ 

BOSTON: 

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,  '      J      «        ♦   • 

>         «     •  •          • 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON   &   CO.. 

110  Washington  Street. 

1849. 


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1S+? 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

PHILLIPS   &   SAMPSON, 

Iq  the  Clerk'a  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 

r 

1 

! 

CONTENTS. 


PAOB. 

.    19 


20 
21 


Kindred  Hearts, Mrs.Hemans, 

The  Dial  of  Flowers, Mrs.  Jlemans, 

Love's  First  Dream., Eliza  Cook,   . 

Tlie  Father, ^^s.  Sigourney,      5 

Legend  of  Oxford, Urs.  Sigourney,    23 

Hymn  of  Nature, Mrs.  Hemans,    .    85 

The  Lost  Star, ^^^^  London,    .    86 

Hermitage  on  the  Sea-shore,  ....  Mrs.  Hemans,    .    8'' 

A  Flower  in  a  Letter, Miss  Barrett. .  .    89 

The  Filgrim's  Rest, Mrs.  Ellis, ...    93 

The  Family  Portraits, Mrs.  Sigourney,    97 

An  Hour  of  Romance, Mrs.  Hemans,   .  143 

God  is  Love, Mrs.  Ellis,.  .   .144 

The  Forgotten  One, Miss  Landon,    .146 

Summer  Woods, Mary  Howitt,    .  150 

Hallowed  be  Thy  Name, Eliza  Cook,   .   .  152 

Low  she  lies,  who  blest  our  eyes,   .   .  Mrs.  Norton, .  .  153 

Oriana, Mrs.  Sigourney,  155 

Prayer, ^^^"^^  ^^^^''  *   '  ^^^ 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girl's  School,    .  Mrs.  Hemans,   .  201 
Disenchantment, Miss  Landon, 


203 


M  1248 


IV  COl^TENTS. 

The  Crusader's  Return, Mrs.  Hema7is,   .  205 

I  miss  thee,  Mother, Bliza  Cook,   .   .  207 

The  Parting  of  Summer, Mrs.  Hemans,   .  209 

The  Intemperate, Mrs.  Sigourney,  211 

The  Indian  Girl, Miss  Landon,    .  235 

(jnef Miss  Barrett, .  .  239 

Substitution, Miss  Barrett, .  .  240 

Comfort, Miss  Barrett, .  .  241 

"V^ork Miss  Barrett, .  .  242 

The  Boon  of  Memory, Mrs.  Hemans,    .  243 

Song  for  the  New  Year, Eliza  Cook,   .   .  245 

The  Patriarch, Mrs.  Sigourney,  247 


J      «  •  • 


a  >        •        •     *        *     I 


THE  FATHER. 

By  L.  H.  Si&ouRXEY. 


u  Yes,— 1  am  he,— who  look'd  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  lov'd  of  earth,— the  ador'd  too  much.- 
It  is  a  fearful  thing,  to  love  what  Death  may  touch." 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


I  WAS  in  the  full  tide  of  a  laborious  and  absorb- 
ing^ profession, — of  one  which  imposes  on  intellect 
an  unsparing  discipline,  but  ultimately  opens  the 
avenues  to  wealth  and  fame.  I  pursued  it,  as  one 
determined  on  distinction, — as  one  convinced  that 
mmd  may  assume  a  degree  of  omnipotence  over 
matter  and  circumstance,  and  popular  opinion.  Am- 
bition's promptings  were  strong  within  me,  nor  was 
its  career  unprosperous. — I  had  no  reason  to  com- 
plain  that  its  promises  were  deceptive,  or  its  harvest 

tardy. 

Yet  as  my  path  was  among  the  competitions  and 
asperities  of  men,  a  character  combining  strong  ele- 
ments  might  have  been  in  danger  of  becoming  in- 
durated, had  it  not  been  softened  and  refined  by  the 
domestic  charities.  Conjugal  love,  early  fixing  on 
an  object  most  amiabh^and  beautiful,  was  as  a  foun- 
tain of  living  water,  springing  up  to  allay  thirst, 
and  to  renovate  weariness,  t  was  anxious  that  my 
home  should  be  the  centre  of  intellectual  imd  polish- 

ed  society,  where  the  buddings  of  thought  should 

A2  ^^-^^-.■^•^■~- 


6  THE    FATHER. 

expand  unchilled,  and  those  social  feelings  which 
are  the  life-blood  of  existence,  flow  forth,  unfettered 
by  heartless  ceremony. — And  it  was  so. 

But  my  present  purpose  is  to  delineate  a  single, 
and  simple  principle  of  our  nature, — the  most  deep- 
rooted  and  holy, — the  love  of  a  father  for  a  davgh- 
ter.  ]\Iy  province  has  led  me  to  analyze  mankind ;  and 
in  doinsj  this,  I  have  sometimes  thrown  their  affec- 
tions  into  the  crucible.  And  the  one  of  which  I 
speak,  has  come  forth  most  pure,  most  free  from 
drossy  admixture.  Even  the  earth  that  combines 
with  it,  is  not  like  other  earth.  It  is  what  the  foot 
of  a  seraph  might  rest  upon,  and  contract  no  pollu- 
tion. With  the  love  of  our  sons,  ambition  mixes  its 
spirit,  till  it  becomes  a  fiery  essence.  We  anticipate 
great  things  for  them, — we  covet  honors, — we  goad 
them  on  in  the  race  of  glory  ; — if  they  are  victors, 
we  too  proudly  exult, — if  vanquished,  we  are  pros- 
trate and  in  bitterness.  Perhaps^  we  detect  in  them 
the  same  latent  perverseness,  with  which  we  have 
waged  warfare  in  our  own  breasts,  or  some  imbecility 
of  purpose  with  which  we  have  no  affinity ;  and  then, 
from  the  very  nature  of  our  love,  an  impatience  is 
generated,  which  they  have  no  power  to  soothe,  or 
we  to  control.  A  father  loves  his  son,  as  he  loves 
himself, — and  in  all  selfishness,  there  is  a  bias  to  dis- 
order and  pain.  But  his  love  for  his  daughter  is 
different  and  more  disinterested  ;  possibly  he  believes 
that  it  is  called  forth  by  a  being  of  a  higher  and 
better  order.     It  is  based  on  the  inte^jral  and  immu- 


THE   FATHER.  / 

table  principles  of  his  nature.  It  recognizes  the  sex 
in  hearts,  and  from  the  very  gentleness  and  mystery 
of  womanhood,  takes  that  coloring  and  zest  which 
romance  gathers  from  remote  antiquity.  It  draws 
nutriment  from  circumstances  which  he  may  not 
fully  comprehend,  from  the  power  which  she  posses- 
ses to  awaken  his  sympathies,  to  soften  his  irrita- 
bility, to  sublimate  his  aspirations  ; — while  the  sup- 
port and  protection  which  she  claims  in  return,  ele- 
vate him  with  a  consciousness  of  assimilation  to  the 
ministry  of  those  benevolent  and  powerful  spirits, 
who  ever  "  bear  us  up  in  their  hands,  lest  we  dash 
our  foot  against  a  stone." 

I  should  delight  longer  to  dwell  on  this  develop- 
ment  of  ah  ction,  for  who  can  have  known  it  more 
perfectly  in  its  length  and  breadth,  in  its  depth  and 
height  1  I  had  a  daughter,  beautiful  in  infancy,  to 
whom  every  year  added  some  new  charm  to  awaken 
admiration,  or  to  rivet  love.  To  me,  it  was  of  no 
slight  import,  that  she  resembled  her  mother,  and 
that  in  grace  and  accomplishment,  she  eariy  surpass- 
ed her  cotemporaries.  I  was  desirous  that  her  mind 
should  be  worthy  of  the  splendid  temple  allotted 
for  its  habitation.  I  decided  to  render  it  familiar 
with  the  whole  circle  of  the  arts  and  sciences.  1 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  commendation  of  her 
teachers.  I  determined  to  take  my  seat  in  the  sacred 
pavilion  of  intellect,  and  superintend  what  entered 
there.  But  how  should  one  buried  beneath  the  pon- 
derous tomes  and  Sysiphean  toils  of  jurisprudence, 


^"^ 


8 


THE    FATHER. 


gain  freedom,  or  undivided  thought,  for  such  minute 
supervision  1  A  father's  love  can  conquer,  if  it 
cannot  create.  1  deprived  myself  of  sleep  :  I  sat  till 
the  day  dawned,  gathering  materials  for  the  lectures 
that  I  gave  her.  I  explored  the  annals  of  architec- 
ture and  sculpture,  the  recesses  of  literature  and 
poetry,  the  labyrinthine  and  colossal  treasure-houses 
of  history, — 1  entered  the  ancient  catacombs  of  the 
illustrious  dead,  traversed  the  regions  of  the  dim  and 
shadowy  past,  with  no  coward  step, — ransacked 
earth  and  heaven,  to  add  one  gem  to  her  casket. 
At  stated  -periods,  I  required  her  to  condense,  to 
illustrate,  to  combine,  what  I  had  brought  her.  I 
listened,  with  wonder,  to  her  intuitive  elr  pence  :  I 
gazed  with  intense  delight  upon  the  int.  ilect  that  I 
thus  embellished, — upon  the  Cormthian  capital  that 
I  had  erected  and  adorned.  Not  a  single  acanthus- 
leaf  started  forth,  but  I  cherished  and  fostered  it  with 
the  dews  of  a  father's  blessing. 

Yet  while  the  outpoured  riches  of  a  masculine  un- 
derstanding were  thus  incorporating  themselves  with 
her  softer  structure,  I  should  not  have  been  content, 
unless  she  had  also  borne  the  palm  of  female  grace 
and  loveliness.  Was  it  therefore  nothing  to  me,  that 
she  evinced  in  her  bloom  of  youth,  a  dignity  sur- 
passing her  sex,  that  in  symmetry  she  restored  the 
image  of  the  Medicean  Venus,  that  amid  the  circles 
of  ranlt  and  fashion,  she  was  the  model — -the  cyp'^ 
sure  ?  Still  was  she  saved  from  that  vanity  whicli 
would  have  been  the  destroyer  of  all  these  charms, 


THE   FATHER.  Vf 

by  the  hallowed  prevalence  of  her  filial  piety.  It 
was /or  my  sake,  that  she  strove  to  render  herself 
the  most  graceful  among  women, — -formy  sake,ib.ui 
she  rejoiced  in  the  effect  of  her  attainments.  Her 
gentle  and  just  nature  felt  that  the  "  husbandman  who 
had  labored,  should  be  first  partaker  of  the  fruits." 
Returning  from  those  scenes  of  splendor,  where  she 
was  the  object  of  every  eye,  the  theme  of  every 
tongue,  when  the  youthful  bosom  might  be  forgiven 
for  inflation  from  the  clouds  of  incense  that  had 
breathed  upon  it,  to  the  inquiry  of  her  mother,  if 
she  had  been  happy,  the  tender  and  sweet  reply 
was,  "Yes, — because  I  saw  that  my  dear  father 


was  so." 


Sometimes,  I  was  conscious  of  gathering  rough- 
ness from  the  continual  conflict  with  passion  and 
prejudice,  and  that  the  fine  edge  of  the  feehngs  could 
not  ever  be  uttei'ly  proof  against  the  corrosions  of 
such  an  atmosphere.  Then  I  sought  my  home,  and 
called  my  bird  of  song,  and  listened  to  the  warbling 
of  her  high,  heaven-toned  voice.  The  melody  of 
that  music  fell  upon  my  soul,  like  oil  upon  the  trou- 
bled billows, — and  all  was  tranquil.  I  v/ondered 
where  my  perturbations  had  fled,  but  still  more, 
that  I  had  ever  indulged  them.  Sometimes,  the  tur- 
moil and  fluctuation  of  the  world,  threw  a  shade  of 
dejection  over  me :  then  it  was  her  pride  to  smooth 
my  brow,  and  to  restore  its  smile.  Once,  a  sor- 
row of  no  common  order  had  fallen  upon  me ;  it 
rankled  in  my  breast,  hke  a  dagger's  point;  I  came 


10  THE    FATHER. 

to  my  house,  but  I  shunned  all  its  inmates.  I  threw 
myself  down,  in  solitude,  that  I  might  wrestle  alone 
with  my  fate,  and  subdue  it ;  a  light  footstep  ap- 
proached, but  I  heeded  it  not.  A  form  of  beauty 
was  on  the  sofa,  by  my  side,  but  I  regarded  it  not. 
Then  my  hand  was  softly  clasped,  breathed  upon, 
— pressed  to  ruby  lips.  It  was  enough.  I  took  my 
daughter  in  my  arms,  and  my  sorrow  vanished. 
Had  she  essayed  the  hackneyed  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy, or  even  the  usual  epithets  of  endearment,  1 
might  have  desired  her  to  leave  my  presence.  Had 
she  uttered  only  a  single  word,  it  would  have  been 
lOO  much,  so  wounded  v/as  my  spirit  within  me. 
But  the  deed,  the  very  poetry  of  tenderness,  breath- 
ing, not  speaking,  melted  "  the  winter  of  my  dis- 
content." Ever  was  she  endued  with  that  most 
exquisite  of  woman's  perfections,  a  knowledge  both 
when  to  be  silent,  and  where  to  speak, — and  so  to 
speak,  that  the  frosts  might  dissolve  from  around 
<he  heart  she  loved,  and  its  discords  bo  tuned  to 

harmonv. 

Thus  was  she  my  comforter,  and  in  every  hour 
of  our  intercourse,  was  my  devotion  to  her  happi- 
ness richly  repaid.  Was  it  strange  that  I  should 
gaze  on  the  work  of  my  own  hands  with  ineffable 
delight?  At  twilight  I  quickened  my  homeward 
step,  with  the  thought  of  that  countenance,  which 
was  both  my  evening  and  morning  star ;  as  the  bird 
nerves  her  wearied  wing,  when  she  hears  from  the 
still -distant  forest,  the  chirpings  of  her  own  nest. 


THE   FATHEH. 


11 


I  sat  in  the  house  of  God,  in  the  silence  of  sab- 
bath meditation,  and  tears  of  thrilling  exultation 
moistened  my  eyes.  I  gazed  upon  my  glorious 
creature,  in  the  stainless  blossom  of  unfolding  youth, 
and  my  whole  soul  overflowed  with  a  father's  pride. 
I  said.  What  more  can  man  desire  ?  I  challenged 
the  whole  earth  to  add  another  drop  to  my  cup 
of  felicity.  Did  I  forget  to  give  glory  to  the  Al- 
mighty, that  his  decree  even  then  went  forth,  to  smite 
down  my  idol  1 

I  came  from  ens-rossins;  toil,  and  found  her  rest- 
less,  with  strange  fire  upon  her  cheek.  Fever  had 
lain  rankling  in  her  veins,  and  they  had  concealed 
it  from  me.  I  raved.  I  filled  my  house  with  phy- 
sicians. I  charged  them  wildly  to  restore  her  to 
health  and  to  me.  It  was  in  vain.  I  saw  that  God 
claimed  her.  His  will  was  written  upon  her  brow. 
The  paleness  and  damps  of  the  tomb  settled  upon 
her. 

I  knelt  by  the  bed  of  death,  and  gave  her  back  to 
her  Creator.  Amid  the  tears  and  groans  of  mourn- 
ers,  I  lifted  up  a  firm  voice.  A  fearful  courage  en- 
tered into  me.  I  seemed  to  rash  even  upon  the 
buckler  of  the  Eternal.  I  likened  myself  unto  hhn 
who,  on  Mount  Moria, "  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and 
took  the  knife  to  slay  his  son."  The  whole  energy 
of  my  nature  armed  itself  for  the  awful  conflict.  1 
gloried  in  my  strength  to  sufi^er.  With  terrible  sub- 
limity, I  stood  forth,  as  the  High  Priest  of  my  smit- 
ten and  astonished  household.     I  gave  the  lamb  in 


12  THE   FATHER. 

sacrifice,  with  an  unshrinking  hand,  though  it  was 
my  own  heart's  blood,  that  steeped,  and  streamed 
oyer  the  altar. 

It  was  over.  She  had  gone.  She  stayed  not 
for  my  embraces.  She  was  permitted  to  give  me 
no  parting-token.  The  mind  that  I  had  adored, 
shrouded  itself  and  fled.  I  knew  that  the  seal  upon 
those  eyes  must  not  be  broken,  till  the  trump  of  the 
Archangel. 

Three  days  and  nights,  I  sat  by  the  dead.  Beauty 
lingered  there,  in  deep,  and  solemn,  and  sacred  re- 
pose. I  laid  my  head  upon  her  pillow.  I  pressed 
my  lips  to  hers,  and  their  ice  entered  into  my  soul. 
I^spoke  to  her  of  the  angels,  her  companions.  1 
talked  long  to  the  beautifal  spirit,  and  methought,  it 
answei'ed  me.  Then  I  listened  breathlessly,  but 
"  there  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  regarded."  And 
still,  I  wept  not. 

The  fatal  day  came,  in  which  even  that  clay  was 
to  be  no  longer  mine.  The  funeral  knell,  with  its 
heavy,  yet  suppressed  summons,  came  over  me  like 
the  dividing  of  soul  and  body.  There  was  a  flood  of 
weeping,  when  that  form,  once  so  replete  with  every 
youthful  charm,  so  instinct  with  the  joyous  mxove- 
ment  of  the  mysterious  principle  of  life,  was  borne 
in  marble  stillness  from  its  paternal  halls.  The  eye 
of  the  mother  that  bore  her,  of  the  friend  that  had 
but  casually  beheld  her,  even  of  the  poor  menial 
that  waited  upon  her,  knew  the  luxury  of  tears. 
All  were  wet  with  that  balm  of  sorrow,  to  overflow- 
ing — all  save  mine. 


THE    FATHER.  13 

The  open  grave  had  a  revolting  aspect.  1  could 
not  bear  that  the  form  which  I  had  worshipped,  should 
be  left  to  its  cold  and  hideous  guardianship.  At  the 
hollow  sound  of  the  first  falling  clod,  I  would  fain 
have  leaped  into  the  pit,  and  demanded  her.  But  1 
ruled  myself.  I  committed  her  to  the  frozen  earth, 
without  a  tear.  There  was  a  tremendous  majesty 
in  such  grief.     I  was  a  wonder  to  myself. 

I  returned  to  my  desolated  abode.  The  silence 
that  reigned  there  was  appalling.  My  spirit  sank 
beneath  it,  as  a  stone  goes  down  into  the  depths  of 
ocean,  bearing  the  everlasting  burden  of  its  fathom- 
less tide.  I  sought  the  room  where  I  had  last  seen 
her,  arrayed  in  the  vestments  of  the  tomb.  There 
lay  the  books  which  we  had  read  together.  Their 
pages  bore  the  marks  of  her  pencil.  I  covered  my 
eyes  from  them,  and  turned  away.  I  bowed  down 
to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  her  flowers,  and  felt  that 
they  had  no  right  to  bloom  so  fair,  when  she,  their 
culturer  and  their  queen,  was  blighted.  I  pressed 
my  fingers  upon  the  keys  of  her  piano,  and  started 
back  at  the  mournful  sound  they  made.  I  wander- 
ed to  her  own  apartment.  I  threw  myself  on  the 
couch  where  from  infancy  she  had  slumbered.  I 
trusted  to  have  wept  there.  But  my  grief  was  too 
mighty,  to  be  thus  unchained.  It  disdained  the  relief 
of  tears.  T  seemed  to  rush  as  upon  a  drawn  sword, 
and  still  it  refused  to  pierce  me. 

Yet  all  this  was  when  no  eye  saw  me.  In  the 
presence  of  others,  I  was  like  Mount  Atlas,  bearing 
unmoved  the  stormy  heavens  upon  his  shoulders. 

B 


14  THE   FATHER. 

I  went  forth,  amid  the  jarring  competitions  and 
perpetual  strifes  of  men.  I  adjusted  their  opposing 
interests,  while  I  despised  them  and  their  concerns. 
I  unravelled  their  perplexities.  I  penetrated  their 
subterfuges.  I  exposed  their  duplicity.  I  cut  the 
Gordian  knots  of  their  self-conceit.  I  made  the 
"  crooked  straight,  and  the  rough  places  plain," — 
with  an  energy  that  amazed  them  and  myself.  It 
was  like  that  of  a  spirit,  which  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  flesh.  I  suffered  the  tumult  of  my  soul  to 
breathe  itself  out  in  bursts  of  stormy  declamation. 
I  exerted  the  strength  of  a  giant,  when  it  was  not 
required.  I  scorned  to  balance  power  with  necessi- 
ty. The  calculations  of  prudence,  and  the  devices 
of  cunning,  seemed  equally  pitiful,  and  despicable. 
I  put  forth  the  same  effort  to  crush  an  emmet,  as  to 
uproot  the  oak  of  a  thousand  centuries.  It  was  suf- 
ficient for  me  always  to  triumph.  While  men  mar- 
velled at  the  zeal  with  which  I  served  them,  I  was 
loathing  them  in  my  heart.  I  was  sick  of  their  chi- 
canery, and  their  Sabbathless  rush  affer  empty 
honors  and  perishable  dross.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  me,  "  less  than  nothing,  and  vanity." 
Still,  I  was  sensible  of  neither  toil,  nor  fatigue,  nor 
physical  exhaustion.  1  was  like  one,  who  in  his 
troubled  dream  of  midnight,  treads  on  air,  and  finds 
it  strangely  sustaining  him. 

But  every  night,  I  went  to  my  daughter's  grave. 
I  laid  me  down  there,  in  unutterable  bitterness.  While 
the  stars  looked  coldly  on  me,  I  spoke  to  her  fondly 


THE    FATHER.  15 

and  earnestly,  as  one  who  could  not  be  denied.  I 
said, — '•  Angel !  who  art  mine  no  longer,  listen  to 
me.  Thou,  who  art  raised  above  all  tears,  cause 
one  tear  to  moisten  my  burning  brow.  Give  it  to 
me,  as  a  token  that  thou  hearest  me,  that  thou  hast 
not  forgotten  me."  And  the  blasts  of  Winter,  through 
the  leafless  boughs,  mocking  replied, — "  Give  it  to 
me, — Give  it  to  77ze."  But  I  wept  not.  Ten  days 
and  nights  passed  over  me, — and  still  I  wept  not. 

My  brain  was  heated  to  agony.  The  visual 
nerves  were  scorched  and  withered.  My  heart  was 
parched  and  arid,  as  the  Libyan  desert.  Then  I 
knew  that  the  throne  of  Grief  was  in  the  heart : 
that  though  her  sceptre  may  reach  the  remotest  nerve, 
and  touch  the  minutest  cell  where  the  brain  slum- 
bers, and  perplex  every  ethereal  ambassador  from 
spirit  to  sense, — yet  the  pavilion  where  her  darkest 
dregs  are  wrung  out,  the  laboratory  where  her  con- 
suming fires  are  compounded,  is  the  heart, — the 
heart, 

I  have  implied  that  my  intellect  faltered.  Yet 
every  morning  I  went  to  the  scene  of  my  labors.  I 
put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  caring  not  though  it 
crushed  me.  I  looked  at  men  fixedly  and  haughtily 
with  my  red  eye-balls.  But  I  spoke  no  word  to 
betray  the  flame  feeding  at  my  vitals.  The  heart- 
strings shrivelled  and  broke  before  it,  yet  the  martyr 
dom  was  in  silence. 

A2;ain,  Night  drew  her  sable  curtain,  and  I  sought 
my  daughter's  grave.     Methought,  its  turf-covering 


16  THE    FATHER. 

was  discomposed,  and  some  half- rooted  shrubs  thai 
shuddered  and  drooped  when  placed  in  that  drear 
assemblage  of  the  dead,  had  been  trampled  and  bro- 
ken. A  horrible  suspicion  took  possession  of  my 
mind.  I  rushed  to  the  house  of  the  sexton. — "  Has 
any  one  troubled  my  daughter's  grave  ?"  Alarmed 
at  my  vehemence,  he  remained  speechless  and  irre- 
solute. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  terror, 
"  who  has  disturbed  my  daughter's  grave."  He 
evaded  my  adjuration,  and  murmured  something 
about  an  injunction  to  secrecy.  With  the  grasp  of 
a  maniac,  I  bore  him  to  an  inner  apartment,  and 
bade  him  satisfy  my  question.  Trembling  at  my 
violence,  he  confessed  that  the  grave  had  been  watch- 
ed for  ten  nights. 

"  Who  has  watched  my  daughter's  grave  ?"  Re- 
luctantly he  gave  me  the  names  of  those  friends, — 
names  forever  graven  upon  my  soul. 

And  so,  for  those  ten  long,  wintry  nights,  so 
dreary  and  interminable,  which  I  had  cast  away 
amid  the  tossings  of  profitless,  delirious,  despairing 
sorrow,  they  had  been  watching,  that  the  repose  of 
that  unsullied  clay  might  remain  unbroken. 

A  new  tide  of  emotion  was  awakened.  I  threw 
myself  down,  as  powerless  as  the  weaned  infant 
Torrents  of  tears  flowed.  The  tenderness  of  man 
wrought  what  the*  severity  of  Heaven  had  failed  to 
produce.  It  was  not  the  earthquake,  nor  the  thun- 
der, nor  the  tempest,  that  subdued  me.     It  was  tho 


THE   FATHER.  1' 

Still,  small  voice.  I  wept  until  the  fountains  of  tears 
failed.  The  relief  of  that  hour  of  weeping,  can  never 
be  shadowed  forth  in  language.  The  prison-house 
of  passionate  agony  was  unlocked.  I  said  to  God  that 
lie  was  merciful,  and  I  loved  him  because  my  angel 
lived  in  his  presence.  Since  then,  it  would  seem, 
that  my  heart  has  been  made  better.  Its  aspirations 
are  upward,  whither  she  has  ascended,  and  as  I  tread 
the  devious  path  of  my  pilgrimage,  both  the  sunbeam 
and  the  thorn  point  me  as  a  suppliant  to  the  Re- 
deemer of  Man,  that  I  may  be  at  last  fitted  to  dwell 

with  her  for  ever. 

B2 


V 


-^'" 


. 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

Oh  !  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below ; 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow  : 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  auo^ht  so  fleet. 


*o' 


It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky, 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns  : 
It  may  be,  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night. 
The  wind  that,  with  so  many  a  tone. 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not,  for  this,  the  true 
And  steadfast  love  of  years ; 


THE    DIAL    OF    FLOWERS. 

The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 
The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 

If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 
Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 

And  watched  through  sickness  by  thy  bed- 
Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend, 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend,— 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied. 

Never  to  mortals  given — 
Oh !  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  Heaven. 


THE  DIAL  OF  FLOWERS.* 

'T  WAS  a  lovely  thought  to  mark  the  hours. 

As  they  floated  in  light  away, 
By  the  opening  and  the  folding  flowers, 

That  laugh  to  the  summer's  day. 

Thus  had  each  moment  its  own  rich  hue, 

And  its  graceful  cup  and  bell. 
In  whose  colored  vase  might  sleep  the  dew, 

Like  a  pearl  in  an  ocean-shell. 

To  such  sweet  signs  might  the  time  have  flowed 
In  a  golden  current  on, 

♦  This  dial  was,  I  believe,  formed  by  Linnaeus,  and  marked  the  ^ouni 
by  the  opening  and  closing,  at  regular  intervals,  of  the  flowers  arraagod 
iniu 


L07E  S    FIRST    DREAM.  21 

Ere  from  the  garden,  man's  first  abode, 
The  glorious  guests  were  gone. 

So  might  the  days  have  been  brightly  told — 

Those  days  of  song  and  dreams — 
When  shepherds  gathered  their  flocks  of  old 

By  the  blue  Arcadian  streams. 

So  in  those  isles  of  delight,  that  rest 

Far  off  in  a  breezeless  main, 
Which  many  a  bark  with  a  weary  quest, 

Has  sought,  but  still  in  vain. 

Yet  is  not  life,  in  its  real  flight, 

Marked  thus — even  thus — on  earth, 
By  the  closing  of  one  hope's  delight, 

And  another's  gentle  birth? 

Oh !  let  us  live,  so  that  flower  by  flower, 

Shutting  in  turn,  may  leave 
A  lingerer  still  for  the  sunset  hour, 

A  charm  for  the  shaded  eve. 


LOVE'S  FIRST  DREAM. 

Bright  is  the  froth  of  an  eastern  wave. 

As  it  plays  in  the  sun's  last  glow ; 
Pure  is  the  pearl  in  its  crystal  bed, 

Gemming  the  worlds  below; 
Warm  is  the  heart  that  mingles  its  blood 

In  the  red  tide  of  glory's  stream ; 
But  more  flashingly  bright,  more  pure,  more  warm, 

Is  love's  first  dream ! 


22  love's  first  dream. 

Hope  paints  the  vision,  with  hues  of  her  own, 

In  all  the  colors  of  spring  ; 
While  the  young  lip  breathes,  like  a  dewy  rose 

Fanned  by  the  fire-fly's  wing. 
'T  is  a  fairy  scene,  where  the  fond  soul  roves, 

Exulting  in  passion's  warm  beam  ; 
Ah  !  sad  't  is  to  think  we  should  wake  with  a  chill, 

From  love's  first  dream ! 

But  it  fades  like  the  rainbow's  brilliant  arch, 

Scattered  by  clouds  and  wind  ; 
Leaving  the  spirit,  unrobed  of  light. 

In  darkness  and  tears  behind. 
When  mortals  look  back  on  the  heartfelt  woes 

They  have  met  with  in  life's  rough  stream, 
That  sigh  will  be  deepest  which  memory  gives 

To  love's  first  dream ! 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


**  Our  fathers  found  bleak  heath  and  desert  moor, 
Wild  woodland,  and  savannahs  wide  and  waste, — 
Rude  country  of  rude  dwellers." 

Southey's  Madoc 


Possibly  it  may  be  unknown,  except  to  a  few 
antiquarians,  that  the  beautiful  town  of  Oxford,  in 
Massachusetts,  was  originally  a  colony  of  French 
Protestants.  They  first  taught  its  forests  the  sound 
of  the  woodman's  axe,  and  extended  to  its  roving 
and  red-browed  sons,  the  hand  of  amity. 

Wherever  the  Hug-uenot  character  mino;led  in  the 
political  formation  of  this  Western  World,  its  infu- 
sion was  bland,  and  salutary.  Industry,  patience, 
cheerful  endurance  of  evil,  ardent  social  affections, 
and  a  piety  firm  but  not  austere,  were  its  distinctive 
features.  In  their  gentle  community,  Age  did.  not 
lay  aside  its  sympathies  with  Youth,  or  feel  exiled 
from  its  sweet  companionship.  The  white  hair  of 
wisdom  gave  no  death-signal  to  cheerfulness.  The 
grandsire,  with  his  snowy  temples,  was  still  the  fa- 
vorite and  delighted  associate  of  his  blooming  de- 
scendants. The  religion  from  whose  root  such  fruits 
sprang,  made  it  no  part  of  its  theory  to  dismiss  the 
smile,  or  call  in  moroseness  as  an  adjunct,  or  robe 


24  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

the  Sabbath  in  sable,  as  if  the  Creator  had  marked 
that  consecrated  day  by  3.  frown  on  his  works,  in- 
stead of  pronouncing  them  "  very  good.''''  Still  the 
elements  of  their  piety,  combined  without  sternness 
or  ostentation,  an  inflexible  adherence  to  duty,  and 
a  spirit,  "  faithful  unto  death,  for  conscience  sake." 

The  loss  of  half  a  million  of  such  inhabitants  to 
France,  was  a  consequence  of  the  persecutions  of 
Louis  XIV.  His  lono-.cherished  intolerance  took  the 
form  of  madness,  in  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantz.  The  expulsion  of  multitudes  of  his  most 
unoffending  and  loyal  subjects,  justified  the  strong 
metaphor  of  Queen  Christina, — "  France  is  a  dis- 
eased man,  submittmg  to  the  amputation  of  his  limbs, 
to  cure  what  a  gentle  regimen  might  conquer." 

The  sufferings  of  the  Protestants  from  the  mis- 
guided zeal  of  their  monarch,  have  left  deep  traces 
on  the  annals  of  History.  Their  worship  of  God 
obstructed,  their  churches  demolished,  their  Pastors 
silenced,  imprisoned,  or  led  to  martyrdom,  an  inso- 
lent soldiery  made  the  inmates  of  their  peaceful 
homes,  licensed  to  every  outrage  by  a  commission 
to  convert  the  heretics^  and  finally  their  children 
torn  from  them,  and  committed  to  the  tutelage  and 
discipline  of  monks,  prepared  them  for  the  fatal  cli- 
max,— the  abolition  of  that  Edict  of  Henry  of  Na- 
varre, which,  a  century  before,  had  guarantied  the 
safety  of  their  ancestors.  The  repeal  of  this  royal 
act  of  protection,  in  December,  1685,  removed  the 
list  barrier  between  them  and  the  raging  flood  which 


-J 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


25 


threatened  to  overwhelm  them.  Every  hour  they 
expected  a  repetition  of  the  horrors  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew. 

Flio'ht  from  the  beloved  land  of  their  birth,  seem- 
ed  the  only  alternative.  Even  to  this  painful  resort, 
obstacles  were  opposed  by  the  despot,  who  forgot  that 
one  requisition  of  a  king  was  to  be  the  father  of  his 
people.  Soldiers  were  stationed  to  intercept  their 
progress,  and  prevent  their  embarkation.  They 
were  driven  literally,  to  take  shelter  in  "  dens,  and 
caves  of  the  earth."  Fathers  were  forced  to  immure 
their  families  in  damp  and  pestilental  caverns,  whence 
they  issued,  the  very  shadows  of  themselves.  Deli- 
cate females,  whom  the  winds  had  never  roughly 
visited,  wandered,  half-clad,  amid  the  chills  of  win- 
ter, or  implored  at  the  peasant's  hut  a  temporary 
refuge.  Mothers,  in  the  recesses  of  dreary  forests, 
hushed  their  wailing  infants,  lest  their  cries  of  mise- 
ry  should  guide  the  search  of  some  brutal  captor. 

The  sea-ports  were  thronged  with  fugitives,  in 
every  guise  and  garb  of  wretchedness.  Rochelle 
for  weeks  overflowed  with  the  exiles  of  Languedoc 
and  Roussillon,  of  Gascoigne  and  Dauphine.  There 
might  be  seen  the  aged,  with  hurrying,  tottering 
steps, — the  matron,  matured  in  the  lap  of  indulgence, 

with  crowds  of  wandering  and  miserable  babes. 

They  came  under  covert  of  midnight,  or  drenched 
by  the  storm :  neither  fatigue,  nor  menace,  deterred 
them.  "  Let  us  go,"  they  exclaimed,  with  frantic 
gestures.  "  We  leave  to  you  our  pleasant  homes  and 


26  LEGEND    OF     OXFORD. 

our  vinevards.  Let  us  go,  with  our  wives  and  oui 
little  ones  ;  we  know  not  whither, — But  in  GocVs 
name^  let  us  go^  The  cry  of  Israel,  in  the  house 
of  Egyptian  bondage,  seemed  to  re-echo  through 
the  beautiful  vales  of  France  :  though  no  majestic 
prophet  adjured  the  ruthless  tyrant,  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord, — "  Let  my  people  go,  that  they  may 
serve  me." 

Hundreds  of  thousands  conquered  every  obstacle, 
and  effected  their  escape.  Favor  in  foreign  lands 
was  extended  to  them,  and  that  pity  was  shown  by 
strangers,  which  their  own  kindred  and  king  de- 
nied. 

Our  New  World  profited  by  this  prodigality  of 
the  Old.  Those  whom  she  cast  out  as  "  despised, 
broken  vessels,  in  whom  there  vv^as  no  pleasure," 
added  cement,  and  symmetry  and  strength  to  our 
magnificent  temple  of  freedom.  Their  descendants, 
scattered  and  incorporated  widely  among  the  people 
of  these  United  States,  still  bear  the  mantle  of  an- 
cestral virtue.  It  would  seem  that  they  inherit  some 
share  in  the  blessing  of  their  fathers,  who  going  forth, 
lilie  the  Patriarch, "  not  knowing  whither  they  went, 
found  their  faith  accounted  as  righteousness." 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  the  winter  of  1686,  that  a 
sliip  tossed  by  contending  storms,  and  repeatedly 
repulsed  from  the  bleak  New-England  coast,  was 
seen  slowly  entering  the  harbor  of  Boston.  It  was 
thronged  with  Huguenot  families,  who,  haggard  from 
the  sufferings  of  their  protracted  voyage,  were  eager 
to  obtain  rf^'ij;:^^  and  repose. 


If 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  27 

Scarcely  more  than  three-score  years  had  elapsed 
smce  the  footsteps  of  the  Pilgrim -Fathers  first  ex- 
plorcd  the  dreary  rocks  and  trackless  wilds  of  Ply- 
mouth.    Persecution   for   righteousness'   sake,  the 
abandonment  of  their  own  loved  land,  their  perils 
on  the  ocean,  and  in  the  wilderness,  those  toils,  pri- 
vations and  hardships,  with  which  they  gladly  pur- 
chased "  freedom  to  worship  God,"  were  still  within 
the  memory  of  the  living.  The  echo  of  those  hymns 
of  "  lofty  cheer,  with  which  they  shook  the  depths 
of  the  desert  gloom,"  was  still  treasured  in  the  bo- 
soms,  and  swelled  in  the  domestic  sanctuary,  of 
their  descendants.    A  class  of  sympathies  was  there- 
fore  in  active  exercise,  which  insured  the  welcome 
of  the  tempest-tost  aliens.     The  few  hoary-headcd 
pilgrims  who  survived,  could  not  fail  to  regard  with 
peculiar  emotion,  those  spirits  with  whom  their  own 

had  strong  afhnity. 

This  colony  of  Huguenots  was  attended  by  their 
Pastor,  the  Reverend  iPierre  Daille,  a  descendant  of 
the  learned  John  Daille,  distinguished  as  an  author, 
and  especially  by  the  work,  entitled  «  An  Apology 
for  the  Reformed  Churches."     Father  Daille,  as  he 
was  styled  by  his  flock,  more  from  the  filial  love 
they  bore  him,  than  from  any  seniority  of  age,  was 
a  man  of  exquisite  sensibility,  tempered  by  the  mee..- 
ness  of  the  Gospel  which  he  preached,  and  whose 
pure  precepts  he  consistently  exemplified.     His^  de- 
Portment  evinced  that  true  politeness  which  springs 
from  re-ard  for  the  feelings  of  others,  and  a  bene- 


28  LEGExXD    OF    OXFORD. 

nevolent  desire  to  add  to  their  happiness.  Hence  he 
invariably  conciliated  those  with  whom  he  associated, 
and  the  use  he  made  of  the  influence  thus  acquired, 
was  to  call  forth  the  better  feelings  of  their  nature, 
to  elevate  their  standard  of  principle  or  practice, 
and  to  recommend  the  relimon  of  Jesus  his  Master. 
Among  those  who  gave  to  him,  and  his  people,  the 
warm  welcome  of  the  Western  World,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  he  should  discover  a  delightful  reci- 
procity in  Elliot,  the  venerable  apostle  of  the  Indians. 
Laying  aside  the  classical  superiority  which  he  at- 
tained at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  in  his  native 
land,  he  had  been  the  patienttranslator  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, into  the  barbarous  dialect  of  the  sons  of  the 
forest.  There  was  in  his  demeanor,  that  perfect 
gentleness,  and  self-renunciation,  which  inspires  even 
the  savao-e  breast  with  love.  Thou2;h  at  this  time 
82  years  of  age,  he  still  continued  his  mission  of 
mercy  to  those  destitute  beings,  often  partaking  of 
their  coarse  fare,  and  stretching  himself,  at  night, 
upon  the  cold,  earthern  floors  of  their  miserable 
habitations.  But  amid  the  self-denying  calmness 
of  his  deportment,  those  who  looked  deeply  into  his 
eye,  might  discern  some  cast  of  that  quiet  and  deter- 
mined courage,  which  had  so  often  queiled  the  fiercest 
chieftains^and  ruled  those  paroxysms  of  anger  which 
threatened  his  death,  by  the  unmoved  reply, — "  I  am 
about  God's  work  : — he  will  take  care  of  me." 

At  one  of  his  early  interviews  with  Father  Daille, 
he  introduced  a  red-browed  man,  on  whose  arm  he 


I 


I 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  29 

leaned  : — "  I  present  to  you,"  said  he,  "  my  brother 
of  the  forest,  and  my  son  in  the  faith."  This  was 
Hiacomes,  his  first  Indian  convert  to  the  Gospel, 
whom  he  had  himself  ordained  as  Pastor  over  a  na- 
tive church  in  Martha's  Vineyard,  and  whose  exam- 
ple and  ministrations  justified  that  high  confidence. 
He  was  a  man  of  commanding  presence, — grave, 
slow  of  speech,  and  so  erect  and  vigorous,  that  it 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  almost  fourscore  winters 
had  passed  over  him.  With  them  also  came  the 
Reverend  John  Mayhew,  whose  lofty  forehead,  and 
intellectual  features,  were  lighted  up  with  an  undy- 
ing benevolence  for  the  poor  aborigines  ;  the  accom- 
plished Dudley,  recently  appointed  to  the  office  of 
Governor,  and  pleased,  perhaps  proud,  of  that "  brief 
authority ;"  Michael  Wigglesworth,  the  allegorical 
poet,  with  the  most  unpoetical  name ;  and  Increase 
Mather,  the  stately  President  of  Harvard  College, 
conscious  of  the  dignity  that  he  sustained,  and  fiill 
of  power  to  sustain  it  nobly.  His  voice,  which  in 
the  fervid  denunciations  of  pulpit  eloquence,  was 
said  to  have  the  force  of  thunder,  adapted  itself  me- 
lodiously to  the  tones  of  conversation,  and  the  ex- 
pressions of  friendship.  He  was  sometimes  accom- 
panied by  his  son,  the  future  author  of  the  "  Mag- 
nalia  Christi  Americana,"  then  a  young  man  of  23, 
in  whose  intelligent  countenance  and  restless  glance 
mio-ht  be  traced  that  love  of  knowledge  which  neu- 
tralizes  the  toil  of  the  severest  study, — that  latent 
superstition  which  was  to  spring  up  as  an  earnest 

C2 


W 


30 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


advocate  of  the  diabolical  delusions  at  Salem,  and 
that  deep-rooted  benevolence  which  adopted  even  in 
boyhood,  the  motto,  "  never  to  be  in  company  with 
any  person,  without  endeavoring  to  do  him  some 
good."  The  acquaintance  and  friendship  of  such 
men,  and  others,  whom  our  limits  will  not  allow 
us  to  mention,  breathed  with  soothino;  and  streno-th- 
ening  influence  over  the  hearts  of  the  exiles  from 
France. 

Boston,  at  the  period  of  which  we  speak,  exhibit- 
ed none  of  the  rudiments  of  its  present  magnificence. 
Its  population  of  between  3  and  4,000,  were  princi- 
pally intent  on  the  necessary  means  of  subsistence. 
No  lofty  spires  pointed  in  their  glory  of  architecture 
to  Him,  whose  pavihon  is  above  the  cloud,  and  whose 
dwelling  is  in  the  humblest  heart.  No  liberally  en- 
dowed institutions,  no  mansions  of  surpassing  splen- 
dor, then  evinced  that  like  ancient  Tyre,  her  "  mer- 
chants were  princes,  and  her  traffickers  the  honorable 
of  the  earth."  Yet  even  then,  in  the  intellectual 
cast  of  her  sons,  in  her  deep  and  sober  reverence  for 
knowledge,  in  her  establishment  of  an  University 
almost  coeval  with  the  first  breath  of  her  own  po- 
litical existence,  might  be  seen  those  elements  of 
thouo-ht  and  action,  which  have  since  made  her  to 
America,  what  Athens  was  to  Greece.  The  hospi- 
tality with  which  she  still  detains  the  step  of  the 
traveller,  and  quickens  his  admiration  of  her  beauti- 
ful localities,  was  at  this  early  period  in  vigorous 
exercise.     It  had  somewhat  of  that  added  fervor, 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  31 

vvliich  a  rude,  primeval  state  of  society  induces, 
where  community  of  danger  inspires  strong  fellow- 
feelings,  and  simplicity  of  life  banishes  the  ceremony 
that  chills  the  heart,  and  the  luxury  that  renders  it 
imbecile. 

During  the  winter  that  the  Huguenots  thus  enjoy- 
ed shelter  and  sympathy  from  their  new-found 
brethren,  preparations  were  in  progress  for  their 
obtaining  a  more  permanent  home.  These  negotia- 
tions eventually  terminated  in  the  purchase  of  a 
tract  of  land,  in  the  county  of  Worcester,  about 
thirty  miles  from  Boston,  recommended  both  by 
native  fertility,  and  beauty  of  situation.  The  stream, 
whose  line  of  crystal  variegates  with  its  graceful 
windings  those  vales  of  verdure,  received  from  the 
emigrants  the  name  of  French  River ;  but  why 
they  gave  their  new  residence  the  appellation  of 
Oxford^  in  preference  to  one  fraught  with  the  mel- 
lifluent tones  and  romantic  recollections  of  their  own 
delightful  land,  history  does  not  inform  us.  Perhaps 
at  the  moment  of  baptizing  this  lodge  in  the  wilder- 
ness, their  torn  hearts  wished  to  lave  in  the  waters 
of  Lethe,  the  hand  that  had  wounded  them.  Per- 
haps they  deemed  it  wise,  to  stifle  emotions,  which 
were  too  tender  and  torturing  for  their  peace.  Or 
perhaps,  some  claim  of  unrecorded  gratitude  prompt- 
ed the  name  of  their  adoption.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  Oxford,  or,  as  some  traditions  assert,  New-Ox- 
ford, was  the  nomenclature  of  their  infant  settlement. 

At  the  earliest  indications  of  the  broken  sway  of 


22  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

winter  the  more  hardy  of  the  colonists,  went  to  take 
possession  of  the  territory,  and  to  erect  temporary 
habitations  for  their  famihes.  Spring  had  some- 
what advanced,  ere  the  more  dehcate  part  of  the 
community  followed.  The  young  turf  was  spring- 
ing, and  the  silver  leaf  of  the  willow  had  hung  out 
its  banner. 

On  the  hardships  and  privations  appointed  them, 
they  entered  with  a  patience  and  cheerfulness  which 
nothing  could  subdue.  They  rejoiced  to  find  a 
temple  where  God  might  be  worshipped,  free  from 
the  tyranny  of  man,  though  that  temple  was  amid 
forests,  which  the  step  of  civilization  had  never 
explored.  Those  who  had  been  nurtured  amid  the 
genial  breathing  of  a  luxuriant  clime,  who  had  im- 
bibed the  fragrance  of  the  vine-flower  in  their  infant 
slumbers,  went  forth  to  daily  labor,  amid  tangled 
thickets,  where  the  panther  and  wolf  howled,  and 
nightly  returned  to  their  rude  cabins,  with  a  smile 
of  gratitude,  "an  everlasting  hymn  within  their 
souls." 

Among  the  early  cares  of  the  colonists,  was  the 
erection  of  a  fort,  as  a  place  of  refuge,  in  case  of 
an  attack  from  the  native  dwellers  of  the  forest. 
They  found  themselves  borderers  upon  the  territory 
of  a  powerful  tribe,  and  stories  of  the  cruelty  of 
Indian  warfare,  which  had  occupied  a  prominent 
place  among  the  winter  evening  tales  of  their  friends 
in  Boston,  had  made  deep  impression  upon  the  minds 
of  an  imaginative  people.     Political  motives,  there 


LEGEND    OF    OXrORD.  33 

fore,  as  well  as  their  own  peaceful  and  pitying  dis- 
positions, led  them,  while  they  stood  prepared  for 
evil,  to  make  every  effort  to  soothe  and  conciliate 
their  savage  neighbors.  They  extended  to  them, 
at  every  opportunity,  the  simple  rites  of  hospitality, 
and  their  bland  and  gentle  manners  apparently  won 
the  friendship  of  those  proud,  yet  susceptible  abo- 
rigines. 

In  the  lapse  of  a  year  after  the  arrival  of  the 
Huguenots,  their  settlement  began  to  assume  the 
features  of  regularity.  Its  simple  abodes  equalled 
the  number  of  families,  and  an  air  of  neatness  and 
even  of  comfort,  pervaded  them.  Each  dwelling 
had  a  small  spot,  allotted  to  horticulture,  from  whose 
broken  surface,  newly  exposed  to  the  free  action  of 
the  sun,  the  seeds  of  France  might  be  seen  timidly 
emerging,  and  striving  to  become  naturalized  in  a 
foreign  soil.  In  a  large  field,  held  as  common 
property,  the  maize  had  already  appeared  in  straight 
and  stately  ranks,  its  intervals  enlivened  by  the  va- 
ried hues  of  the  bright  bean-blossom.  Lycurgus 
might  here  have  seen  illustrated  his  favorite  plan 
of  the  Laconian  brotherhood,  where  without  conten- 
tion, each  should  give  his  labor  to  the  earth,  and 
without  jealousy  apportion  its  treasures.  The  natives, 
seeking  for  game  in  the  neighboring  thickets,  fre- 
quently paused  to  regard  the  movements  of  the  new 
settlers.  But  it  did  not  escape  their  observation, 
that  the  simple  expressions  of  amity  with  which 
Jieir  arrival  had  been  welcomed,  soon  subsided  into 


34  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

Tx  reserved  depcriment,  varied  occasionally  by  marks 
of  stupid  \v0nd3r,  or  decided  aversion.  At  length 
tliG  son  of  the  forest  utterly  avoided  the  habitations 
of  his  v/hire  neighbors,  where  he  had  sometimes 
accepted  a  shelter  for  the  night,  or  a  covert  from  the 
storm.  Still  he  might  be  seen  with  a  dejected  brow, 
lin^erino;  near  theij  cultivated  fields,  and  reirardinfx 
their  more  skilful  operations  of  ag-riculture,  with  an 
ill-defined  emotion.  This  was  by  some  explained 
as  the  result  of  envv,  b"v  others  of  hatred,  infused 
by  the  powaws,  who  continually  impressed  the  idea 
that  these  pale  intruders  would  eventually  root  the 
red  man  out  of  his  father's  land.  Yet  these  symp- 
toms of  disaffection,  however  variously  interpreted, 
were  ominous ;  and  the  resolution  was  unanimous, 
to  preserve  the  most  conciliatory  deportment,  yet  to 
take  every  precaution  for  safety,  and  not  to  go  un- 
armed even  to  daily  labor.  Thus  the  musket  was 
the  companion  of  the  implements  of  rural  toil,  as 
in  the  days  of  Nehemiah  the  restorers  of  Jerusalem 
wrought  "  every  man  with  one  hand  upon  the  wall, 
and  with  the  other  held  his  spear,  having  his  sword 
girded  by  his  side." 

It  was  after  sunset  on  a  summer's  day  in  1687, 
as  the  colonists  were  returning  from  the  field,  that 
a  party  of  natives  was  observed  to  approach,  appa- 
rently with  an  intention  of  cutting  off  their  commu- 
nication with  their  abodes.  Continuing  to  reject 
every  attempt  at  parley,  and  bearing  on  their  dark 
brows  the  sullen  purpose  of  vengeance,  they  passed 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  35 

slowly  onward  in  an  oblique  direction,  as  if  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  rising  grounds  in  the  neighbor- 
hood  of  the  fort.     A  momentary  council  was  held 
among  the  emigrants,  who  were  compelled  to  per- 
ceive that  their  destruction  was  meditated.  Conscious 
that  they  embodied  the  effective  strength  of  the  colony, 
and  that  on  their  present  decision  its  existence  de- 
pended,  they  were  anxious  to  avoid  rashness,  and 
yet   not  to  testify  such  regard    for  their  personal 
safety,  as  might  give  to  the  watchful  foe,  an  appear- 
ance of  timidity.     They  observed  that  they  were 
greatly  outnumbered,  but  that  only  a  few  of  then- 
enemies  were  provided  with  fire-arms,  the  remainder 
carrying  bows  and    tomahawks.     Three    muskets 
were  immediately  fired  in  rapid  succession,  accord- 
ing to  a  previous  agreement,  as  a  signal  for  the  fe- 
males and  children  to  take  refuge  in  the  fort,  if 
their  husbands  and  fathers  should  be  attacked  at.  a 
distance  from  home.  Then  forming  into  a  solid  body, 
they  marched  onward  with  a  firm  step,  having  their 
pieces  loaded,  but  not  deeming  it  expedient  to  hazard 
the  first  assault.     Each  silently  revolved  the  deso- 
lation that  would  ensue,  upon  their  fall,  to  the  infant 
settlement,  the  peaceful  Ere-side,  and  those  dearer 

than  life. 

Yet  with  unshrinking  bravery  they  approached 
their  terrible  opponents,  and  in  silent  aspirations  in- 
voked that  Being,  with  whom  it  is  "  nothing  to  save, 
whether  by  many,  or  by  them  who  have  no  help." 
The  shifting  lines  of  the  enemy  became  stationary, 


! 
! 


36  LEGE:<fD   OF  oxroRD 

having  gained  the  brow  of  an  acclivity,  where  wero 
several  large  trees,  behind  which  they  could  be  shel- 
tered,  according  to  their  mode  of  warfare.  Many 
of  the  warriors  were  already  stationed  behind  these 
fortifications,  while  the  remainder  intercepted  the 
path  along  which  the  Huguenots  were  advancing 
toward  their  homes.  This  post,  though  chosen  by 
these  sons  of  nature  without  knowledge  of  tactics, 
j  was  highly  advantageous.  Their  fire  in  front,  upon 

i  those  who  ascended  the  hill,  would  be  greatly  an- 

I  noying ;  on  the  right,  their  marksmen  sheltered  by 

trees  might  take  deadly  aim  with  little  danger  of 
retaliation,  while  on  the  left,  a  thick  forest,  obstruct- 
ed by  underwood,  promised  to  baffle  the  flight  of 
fugitives.  In  the  rear,  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile, 
lay  the  fort,  where  they  might,  after  vanquishing 
their  protectors,  wreak  on  the  helpless  ones  the  ven- 
geance of  extermination.  Already  they  viewed  the 
objects  af  their  hatred  as  within  their  grasp,  and  a 
murmur  of  savage  joy  ran  through  their  ranks,  pre- 
paratory to  the  yell  of  battle.  They  silently  singled 
out  their  victims  for  the  triumph  and  for  the  stake, 
and  deemed  the  blood  of  their  invaders  would  be  a 
just  and  grateful  offering  to  the  spirits  of  their 
fathers,  angry,  even  amid  fields  of  light,  that  their 
sons  could  tamely  resign  their  heritage.  The  Chris- 
tians had  begun  to  ascend  the  hill.  They  were  within 
thirty  paces  of  those  who  sought  their  destruction. 
Yet  they  paused,  ere  the  fatal  conflict  should  send 
into  eternity  they  knew  not  how  many  souls.  Every 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  37 

head  was  uncovered,  and  every  knee  bent  to  the 
earth.    In  one  deep,  solemn  response,  their  mingled 
voices  broke  forth,—"  Deliver  us,  O  Jehovah !  from 
the  hand  of  the  unrighteous,  and  cruel  man:  for 
thou  art  our  hope,  O  God  1  thou  art  our  trust  from 
our  youth."     They  rose  and  advanced,  with  souls 
prepared  either  for  victory  or  death.  But  the  perilous 
enterprise  was  arrested  by  a  mysterious  form,  rushing 
from  the  dark  forest  on  the  left  of  their  path.     He 
seemed  of  more  than  mortal  height,  and  his  flowing 
robes  were  girt  about  his  loins,  with  a  broad  blood- 
red  cincture.     On  his  head  was  a  resemblance  of 
the  ancient  helmet,  surmounted  with  lofty  and  sable 
plumes.     In  his  right  hand  a  sword  flashed  with  in- 
effable brightness,  and  his  left  bore  a  blazing  torch, 
which  illumined   his  pale  countenance,   yet   faded 
beneath  the  lightning  of  his  awful  eye.  He  exclaim- 
ed,  as  he  approached  the  little  flock  of  Christians,— 
«  The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon  !" 

Pointing  onward  with  his  dazzling  blade,  they 
followed  him  mechanically,  as  if  the  shade  of  Conde 
or  Coligny  had  arisen  from  the  grave  to  lead  them 
to  victory.  The  Indians  stood  as  if  transfixed  with 
horror,  until  this  mysterious  being  confronted  them 

face  to  face. 

There  was  a  pause  of  fearful  silence,  and  then  he 
uttered,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  shake  the  hills,  a 
few  terrible  words  in  an  unknown  tongue.  But  they 
were  intelligible  to  the  enemy,  who  were  in  an  in- 
stant overwhelmed  with  astonishment  and  fear.    At 

D 


38  legenli  of  oxford. 

the  charmed  words,  as  if  spell-bound,  the  bow,  stretch- 
ed to  its  utmost  tension,  dropt  the  trembling  arrow, 
and  the  uplifted  tomahawk  sank  from  the  hand  of 
the  nerveless  warrior.  The  whole  body  of  savages 
turned  in  flio;ht.  Still  a  voice  of  thunder  arrested 
their  breathless  speed. 

"  Stay ! — Hear  what  the  Great  Spirit  saith.  If 
ye  lift  your  hand  against  one  of  these  my  servants, 
if  ye  hurt  a  hair  of  the  head  of  any  belonging  unto 
them,  your  flesh  shall  be  given  as  meat  to  the  beasts 
of  the  earth,  and  to  the  fowls  of  heaven,  and  your 
souls  shall  never  enter  the  abodes  of  your  fathers. — 
Remember, — and  begone  !" 

Scarcely  was  the  permission  accorded,  ere  the 
surroundinn;  hills  were  covered  v/ith  the  flvino;  fuo-i- 
tives.  Their  native  agility,  quickened  by  terror, 
regarded  no  obstacle  of  rock,  thicket,  or  stream. 
The  majestic  being  reared  high  his  flaming  torch,  and 
beheld  their  departure.  Not  one  turned  to  look  back, 
so  deep  was  their  dread  of  that  fearful  countenance, 
and  tremendous  tone.  Bending  his  piercing  glance 
upon  those  whom  he  had  rescued,  he  read  the  most 
intense  traces  of  gratitude,  astonishment,  and  awe, 
and  heard  ttie  repeated  yet  half-suppressed  inquiry. 
— "  Who  is  our  deliverer?" 

A  voice  of  majesty  answered : 

"  I  am  the  pillar  of  cloud,  and  the  pillar  of  flame, 
sent  before  you  in  this  wilderness,  by  the  Eternal. 
Gaze  not  thus,  attempt  not  to  pursue  my  path,  lest, 
\ike  the  wretches  who  prest  upon  the  base  of  Sinai, 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  39 

when  Jehovah  honored  it,  ye  perish  amid  blackness, 
and  darkness,  and  tempest.  Veil  your  eyes,  and 
bow  your  faces  in  the  dust,   while  I  pass  on  my 


way." 


They  obeyed,  and  from  a  greater  distance,  the 
same  deep  tone  was  heard  to  command — 

"  When  you  reach  your  homes,  and  find  those 
eyes  tearful  with  joy,  which  might  have  been  closed 
in  blood,  give  glory  to  the  God  of  Israel." 

When  the  ransomed  band  raised  their  heads  from 
the  earth,  some  thought  that  they  saw  the  firma- 
ment glowing  as  with  a  path  of  living  flame.     But 
others  said  it  was  the  ray  of  the  full  moon,  which 
lifting  from  the  horizon  her  broad  disk  of  pale  gold, 
tinged  the  mountain-tops  and  forests  with  the  same 
hue,  then  gradually  faded  into  silver,  as  a  bride 
covers  her  heightened  complexion  with  a  snowy  veil. 
The  extreme  excitement  of  this  sudden  danger  and 
unaccountable  deliverance,  did  not  permit  the  colo- 
nists to  discover,  until  their  arrival  at  their  habita- 
tions, that  one  of  their  number  was  missing.  Then, 
the  wife  of  Laurens,  holding  her  babe  in  her  arms, 
was  seen  vainly  inquiring  for  her  husband. 

They  explored  the  paths  which  had  been  traversed, 
they  returned  to  the  field  where  they  had  labored. 
But  no  trace  was  to  be  found,  save  his  cartridge-box, 
lying  near  the  spot  where  he  had  toiled.  It  was 
then'evident  that  he  had  not  been  with  tkm  in  their 
scene  of  peril,  and  dismay  marked  every  counte- 
nance.     Conjecture  was  busy  in  her  darkest  forms 


40  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

among  tender  and  apprehensive  spirits,  while  the 
effective  strength  of  the  colony  gathered  in  consult- 
ation. The  boldest  proposed  immediate  pursuit,  and 
reclaiming  the  captive  by  force  of  arms,  during  the 
season  of  consternation  which  then  prevailed  among 
the  Indians.  The  more  cautious  suo-o-ested  the  dan- 
ger  of  invading  their  territory  with  such  inferiority 
of  numbers,  as  might  involve  not  only  their  own 
destruction,  but  the  extinction  of  the  colony.  Th3 
result  of  their  council,  was  to  send  an  embassy  to 
Boston,  requesting  the  Governor  to  demand  of  the 
Indian  king  their  captive  brother,  or  to  grant  them 
military  aid  in  effecting  his  rescue. 

A  day  of  intense  anxiety  was  endured  in  that  lit- 
tle settlement.  But  on  the  ensuing  morning,  ere  the 
sun  had  dispersed  the  cloud  of  vapor  that  encom- 
passed the  valley,  a  shout  of  joy  burst  wildly  from 
many  voices.  The  lost  brother  had  been  discovered 
hasting  toward  his  home.  Only  a  short  interval 
transpired,  ere  he  was  surrounded  by  a  throng  of 
kindred  and  friends,  welcoming  him  with  wondering 
rapture,  and  demanding  his  adventures.  His  heart 
was  full,  and  his  lip  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"  When  we  departed  from  the  field,  after  our  last 
day's  labor,  I  had  not  proceeded  far  in  your  compa- 
ny, before  I  discovered  that  my  cartridge-box  was 
left  behind.  Without  mentioning  the  circumstance, 
I  ran  to  fetch  it,  expecting  to  rejoin  you,  ere  I  should 
be  missed.  As  I  leaped  the  inclosure,  I  received  a 
blow  on  the  head  from  an  Indian,  who  was  lurking 


LEGEND     OF    OXFORD.  41 

there.  When  I  had  partially  recovered  my  senses, 
1  endeavored  to  arise,  but  found  myself  in  the  power 
of  four  natives,  who  had  deprived  me  of  my  weapons. 
With  threatening  gestures,  they  hurried  me  onward. 
A  great  part  of  the  night  we  travelled,  through  al- 
most impenetrable  woods.  Then  they  halted,  and 
a  fire  was  kindled.  They  kindly  offered  me  a  por- 
tion of  the  rude  viands  on  which  they  fed.  Then 
they  lay  down  to  sleep,  after  pinioning  me  securely, 
and  appointing  a  sentinel,  with  a  loaded  musket. 
Soon  they  fell  into  slumber ;  but  for  me,  though  sore- 
ly wearied,  there  was  no  forgetfulness.  The  flame, 
sometimes  blazing  high,  then  suddenly  declining, 
cast  a  wavering  light  upon  the  grim  faces  and  dis- 
hevelled locks  of  those  whose  captive  I  was,  whose 
victim  I  might  soon  be.  Their  athletic  limbs,  stretch- 
ed supinely,  gave  evidence  of  great  strength,  w^hile 
their  dark,  red  brows,  distorted  in  dreams,  seemed 
as  if  the  Spirit  of  Evil  had  visibly  set  his  seal  there. 
When,  sickening  at  the  scene,  I  looked  upward,  there 
v/as  the  full,  cloudless  moon,  g-ildins;  the  crest  of  the 
wide  forest,  and  gliding  down  its  deep  arches,  to  visit 
the  earth,  like  the  eye  of  Heaven,  beholding  a  world 
of  sin,  itself  continuing  pure. 

But  I  could  not  raise  my  thoughts  in  the  sublime 
offices  of  devotion.  They  hovered  wildly  around 
this  beloved  spot,  and  her  who,  I  knew,  was  sleep- 
less for  my  sake.  I  remembered  you  all,  my  friends, 
and  fancied  that  I  heard  your  voices,  and  saw  your 
search  for  the  lost  one.     Then  it  seemed  as  if  an 

D  2 


i^:; 


42  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

unearthly  might  inspired  me,  and  I  beheved  that  I 
could  destroy  my  foes,  and  pass  through  their  blood 
to  my  home,  and  to  you.  Then,  attempting  to  start 
up,  my  pinioned  limbs  painfully  admonished  me,  and 
I  grieve  to  say,  that  the  prayer  with  which  I  strove 
to  solace  myself,  was  more  in  bitterness,  than  in 
humble  trust. 

Suddenly,  the  trampling  of  many  feet  destroyed 
my  reverie.  A  body  of  Indians  approached,  hastily 
and  in  disorder.  They  conversed  eagerly  with  my 
captors,  in  their  own  language.  I  imagined,  by  their 
wild  gestures,  that  they  were  detailing  some  warlike 
expedition,  and  a  horrible  suspicion  took  hold  of  me. 
I  feared  that  they  had  fallen  like  wolves  upon  our 
peaceful  fold,  and  shuddered  lest  I  might  discover  on 
their  raiment,  stains  of  the  blood  that  was  most  dear 
to  me.  At  every  change  of  attitude,  my  straining 
eyes  followed  with  terror,  lest  they  should  display 
some  fair-haired  scalp.  From  their  impassioned  ac- 
tion, I  could  gain  nothing,  save  broken  delineations 
of  some  conflict,  in  which  the  madness  of  astonish- 
ment predominated. 

A  prey  to  the  most  afflicting  suspense,  I  was  hur- 
ried onward  to  the  residence  of  their  king.  It  was 
surrounded  by  a  number  of  dwellings,  constructed 
in  their  arbor-like  manner  and  thatched  with  mat- 


tmg. 


There  I  saw,  in  the  midst  of  a  few  warriors,  the 
king  of  the  Nipmucks  and  Narragansetts.  He  was 
tall,  with  a  coronet  of  white  feathers  on  his  head, 


LEGExVD    OF    OXFORD.  43 

and  a  grave  and  noble  countenance.  He  was  in 
conversation  with  an  aged  man,  whose  eye  was 
fixed  and  severe.  This  was  the  ancient  prophet, 
greatly  reverenced  by  the  surrounding  tribes.  After 
the  large  party  of  Indians  had  related  their  story 
with  strong  gesticulation,  my  captors  led  me  for- 
ward, and  the  king  regarded  me  with  a  penetrating 
glance. 

"Hast  thou  shed  the  blood  of  Indians?'  he  in- 
quired. I  answered  in  the  negative,  and  added  that 
we  were  a  peaceful  people,  considering  all  men  as 
our  brethren.  He  stood  for  some  time  in  silence, 
gravely  scrutinizing  me.  Then  he  addressed  the 
prophet,  still  speaking  in  English. 

"  Seest  thou  cause,  why  this  prisoner  should  not 
be  set  at  liberty?" 

"  Seest  thou  cause  /" — exclaimed  the  old  man 
indignantly,  and  extending  his  hand  in  rhetorical 
action.  "  The  cause  is  on  the  sky. — It  hath  told  thee 
in  thunder,  that  wherever  the  foot  of  the  pale  race 
comes,  the  red  man  must  perish.  The  cause  is 
written  on  the  earth, — in  the  blood  of  our  warriors. 
It  is  upon  the  air, — in  the  red  blaze  of  our  wigwams. 
And  thou  art  a  king  of  the  Narragansetts,  and 
dost  ask  of  me  if  there  is  any  cause  why  a  white 
man  should  die  ?" 

"  Think  not  that  I  forget  the  slaughter  of  my  peo- 
ple," said  the  king  : — "  But  they  were  the  hands  of 
Enghshmen,  that  dropped  with  their  blood.  What 
have  this  man,  or  his  brethren,  done  1    They  are  of 


44 


LEGEXD    OF   OXFORD. 


another  race.  They  came  not  hither  to  waste  us. 
They  only  mark  furrows  upon  the  green  earth,  and 
the  corn  rises.  I  myself  have  been  in  their  dwell- 
ings-, but  not  as  a  kino;.  I  went  thither  as  the  fox, 
and  they  were  before  me  like  doves,  without  guile. 
I  was  weary,  and  they  spread  for  me  a  bed.  Tliey 
believed  that  I  slumbered.  But  my  eye,  like  the 
eagle's,  was  upon  all  their  ways.  They  spake  no 
evil  of  Indians.  No — in  their  prayers  they  asked 
good  things  for  us,  of  their  Great  Spirit.  There  is 
no  bitterness  in  their  hearts,  towards  red  men.  Son 
of  Wisdom,  why  should  we  lift  our  hand  against  the 
innocent  ?" 

*'  Thou  art  deceived,  son  of  Philip !"  answered 
the  Prophet.  "  They  are  moles,  mining  around  thine 
habitation.  Their  path  is  in  silence  and  in  darkness, 
and  thy  heart  is  simple  as  the  babe.  Ere  thou  art 
aware,  thou  shalt  struggle  like  the  fish  in  the  net, 
and  who  can  deliver  thee  ?  The  crested  snake 
cometh  forth  boldly,  and  the  poisonous  adder  work- 
eth  her  way  beneath  the  matted  grass.  Are  they 
not  both  the  offspring  of  the  deadly  serpent  ?  This 
m.an,  and  his  brethren,  and  they  who  have  long 
slaughtered  us,  are  all  of  one  race.  They  are  but 
the  white  foam  of  that  ocean,  which  the  Great  Spirit 
hath  troubled  in  his  wrath.  Art  thou  the  son  of 
Philip,  standing  still,  till  its  billows  sweep  thee, 
and  thy  nation,  away  1  That  lion-hearted  monarch 
was  not  so.  Rivers  of  blood  flowed  before  him  in 
battle.     Even  now,  his  soul  is  angry  at  the  sight  of 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  45 

white  men.     Last  night,  in  visions,  it  stood  beside 
me.     Its  brow  was  hke  thine,  O  king,  but  frowns 
of  vengeance  made  it  terrible.     His  eye  was  dark 
Hke  thine,  but  the  hghtning  of  the  brave  made  its 
glance  awful.     His  voice  was  hoarse  and  hollow, 
as  if  it  rose  from  the  sepulchre.     Ice  entered  into 
my  blood,  as  its  tones  smote  my  ear.     '  I  cannot 
rest,'  it  said.     '  White  men  multiply,  and  become 
as  the  stars  of  heaven.     My  people  fade  away  like 
the  mist,  when  the  sun  ariseth.    On  their  own  land, 
they  have  become  strangers.     My  son  hideth,  with 
the  remnant  of  his  tribe,  in  the  borders  of  another 
nation.     The]}  call  him  King.     Why  doth  he  not 
dare  to  set  his  feet,  where  his  father's  throne  stood  1 
I  see  cities  there,  and  temples  to  a  God  whom  our 
fathers  knew  not.     Our  canoes  ride  no  longer  on 
the  tides  of  the  Narragansett.    Proud  sails  are  there, 
whiter  than  the  curl  of  its  ^vaters.     Doth  the  son 
of  Philip  sleep  ?    Tell  him,  if  he  be  a  king,  to  write 
it  in  blood,  on  the  grave  where  my  bones  moulder. 
Tell  him,  if  he  be  my  son,  to  sheath  his  spear  in  the 
breast  of  every  white  man,  till  the  soul  of  his  father 
is  satisfied.'    The  spirit  vanished,  and  the  blackness 
of  midnight  glowed  like  a  gush  of  blood.     I  have 
spoken  its  message  unto  thee,  king  of  a  perishing 
race.     Yonder  is  a  victim,  provided  by  the  Great 
Spirit.     Bid  it  soothe  the  sorrowing  shade  of  thy 
father." 

The  forest  echoed  to  the  furious  voice  of  the  in- 
censed prophet.     The  king  covered  his  face  with 


\ 


46  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

his  hands.  Then  pointing  mournfully  toward  me, 
he  said, — "  Take  him,  and  do  with  him  what  ye  will. 
It  is  not  the  king,  but  the  prophet,  that  demandeth 
his  blood." 

I  would  have  spoken,  but  he  walked  hastily  away. 
The  old  man  gazed  after  him  with  a  reproachful  eye, 
and  then  spoke  rapidly  to  the  people,  in  their  own 
language,  giving,  as  I  supposed,  directions  for  my 
death.  I  observed  him  closely,  to  discover  whether 
argument  or  supplication  might  be  hazarded.  But 
in  his  stern,  stony  features,  there  dwelt  no  touch  of 
human  sympathy.  The  victim  might  as  well  have 
hoped  to  propitiate  the  Druid,  whose  pitiless  hand 
grasped  the  sacrificial  blade.  I  suffered  them  to  lead 
me  away,  in  silence. 

They  conducted  me  to  a  level  spot,  from  whence 
the  trees  had  been  partially  cleared,  as  if  by  fire.  I 
believed  this  to  be  the  place  of  execution.  They 
desired  me  to  sit,  and  the  women  and  children  flock- 
ed around  me.  Yet  I  saw  not  upon  their  brows 
aught  of  hatred  or  exultation.  Some  were  strongly 
marked  with  pity.  Even  the  little  ones  regarded 
me  with  melancholy  attention.  Towards  noon,  a 
plentiful  repast  was  brought  me.  It  would  seem 
that  they  had  put  in  requisition  all  their  culinary 
skill,  to  furnish  my  last  feast  on  earth.  Fish,  birds, 
and  the  flesh  of  the  deer,  with  cakes  baked  in  the 
ashes,  and  parched  corn,  varied  the  banquet.  They 
spread  it  before  me,  and  retired  to  some  distance, 
taught  by  Nature  the  simple  politeness  of  not  dis- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  47 

turbing  the  stranger.  Returning,  they  brought  water 
for  my  hands  and  face,  and  the  children,  venturing 
nearer,  decked  my  hair  with  wild  flowers.  I  felt 
that  they  were  adorning  the  victim  for  the  altar,  yet 
I  could  not  but  look  on  them  with  kindness,  for  their 
guileless  manners  and  simple  ceremonies  served  to 
soothe  apprehension,  though  they  might  not  nourish 
hope.  The  men  consulted  in  groups.  Probably, 
the  arrangements  for  my  martyrdom  occupied 
them.  Yet  they  displayed  neither  the  impatience 
to  hasten  it,  nor  the  savage  triumph,  that  I  had 
been  taught  to  expect  from  descriptions  of  similar 
scenes. 

At  the  decline  of  day,  they  stripped  a  small  tree 
of  its  boughs,  and  cut  off  its  trunk  at  the  distance 
of  six  or  seven  feet  from  the  earth.  As  the  shades 
of  evening  deepened,  they  kindled  a  large  fire, 
around  which  they  began  to  dance,  with  dissonan*' 
music,  and  violent  gesticulation.  Becoming  excited 
almost  to  madness,  they  approached  and  bound  me 
to  the  tree. 

Hitherto,  I  had  but  imperfectly  realized  my  doom. 
Illusions  of  escape  and  of  deliverance  had  been  flit- 
ting through  my  imagination.  Even  when  the 
branches  were  heaped  around  that  were  to  consume 
me,  I  could  not  dismiss  these  illusions.  They  put 
fire  to  the  encircling  fuel.  It  was  green,  and  the 
thick  smoke  almost  suffocated  me.  Horrible  visions 
swam  before  my  eyes.  Unutterable  thoughts  rush- 
ed through  my  brain.     My  soul  could  not  bid  adieu 


4  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

to  the  objects  of  its  love.  It  was  tossed  upon  a  sea 
of  wild  emotion,  like  a  reeling  bark  before  the  tem- 
pest. I  strove  to  recall  the  instructions  of  my  revered 
pastor,  but  Memory  was  a  wreck,  amid  the  billows 
of  Fate. 

Before  me  was  a  steep  hill,  interspersed  with  rocks 
and  thickets.  There  my  eyes  fixed,  until  every 
bush  seemed  to  cluster  with  fiery  faces.  At  length, 
on  the  summit  of  that  precipice,  where  dark  clouds 
rested,  a  light  shone,  above  the  brightness  of  the 
moon.  A  form,  of  more  than  mortal  height,  came 
gliding  thence,  in  a  path  of  living  flame.  In  its 
right  hand  glittered  the  semblance  of  a  sword,  ai>d 
on  its  left  came  forth  fire,  which  seemed  to  kindle 
the  firmament.  I  thought  I  beheld  the  Kina;  of  Ter- 
rors.      I  wished  that  I  could  welcome  his  approach. 

The  fearful  form  came  nearer.  It  stood  before 
me.  Awful  tones,  in  an  unknown  tongue,  proceeded 
from  its  lips.  At  their  sound,  my  foes  shrieked 
and  fled.  Like  the  host  of  Israel,  at  the  terrible 
voice  from  the  flames  of  Sinai,  they  could  ngt  endure 
that  "  those  words  should  be  spoken  to  them  a  second 
tune." 

I  was  writhing  before  the  scorching  flame.  A 
hand  of  power  loosened  my  bonds.  "  Follow  me," 
said  a  tremendous  voice ;  "  but  gaze  not  on  me,  lest 
thou  perish."  I  obeyed,  and  shading  my  eyes  with 
my  hand,  walked  in  the  path  of  light,  that  gleamed 
before  me.  I  trembled,  lest  I  might  accidentally 
look  upon  one,  whom  "  no  man  can  see  and  live." 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  49 

It  seemed  that  the  way  was  long,  but  my  mind 
was  in  that  state  when  the  unities  of  time  and  space 
are  annihilated.  I  thought  that  the  drapery  of  a 
diseased  intellect  enveloped  me,  or  that  I  had  already 
passed  the  gulf  of  death,  and  was  gliding  through 
the  region  of  disembodied  spirits.  But  still  before 
me  moved,  in  mysterious  majesty,  that  "  pillar  of 
cloud,  and  pillar  of  flame."  At  length,  we  stood 
upon  the  banks  of  a  river,  which  I  recollected  to 
have  crossed  soon  after  my  capture.  The  difficulty 
which  we  had  encountered  in  fording  it,  was  the 
first  circumstance  that  perfectly  restored  my  senses 
from  their  stupor,  after  the  stroke  that  prostrated  me. 

"  Pass  through  the  stream,"  said  the  same  tre- 
mendous voice.  I  shuddered  at  its  tone.  "  Pass 
through  the  stream.  If  its  waters  oppose  thee,  ask 
aid  of  Him  who  taught  the  wavering  disciple  to 
walk  upon  the  sea.  When  thou  reachest  the  shore, 
kneel,  and  pay  thy  vows  to  Jehovah." 

I  plunged  into  the  swollen  waters.  Thrice,  their 
current  thwarted  me.  Once,  1  found  myself  beyond 
my  depth,  and  exhaustion  came  over  me.  I  spake 
to  my  Redeemer.  Still  the  pure  ray  of  that  mys- 
terious light  gleamed  around  me,  till  I  gained  the 
opposing  shore  in  safety.  There  I  knelt,  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  command  of  my  deliverer.  My  heart 
was  full  of  unutterable  aspirations.  When  they 
ceased,  I  arose,  but  there  was  no  longer  any  bright- 
ness  in  my  path.     I  saw  that  the  night  had  fled,  and 

the  gray  dawn  trembled  in  the  east. 

E 


!! 


50  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

As  I  drew  near  these  beloved  abodes,  the  appre- 
hensions which  had  distressed  me,  at  the  return  and 
mysterious  recital  of  the  Indian  warriors,  again  re- 
sumed their  sway.  How  shall  I  describe  the  rapture, 
with  which  the  light  of  morning  gave  to  my  view, 
the  smoke  curling  in  peaceful  volumes  above  these 
trees  !  I  seemed  to  surmount  the  space  that  divided 
me  from  you,  as  the  swift-winged  bird  cleaves  the 
air.  Methought  I  could  pour  out  existence  to 
Him  who  had  preserved  it,  in  one  unending  hymn 
of  joy. 

Friends,  ask  me  neither  for  explanation  nor  com- 
ment. I  have  given  you  the  truth,  as  it  dwells  in 
my  soul.  Bewildered,  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say, 
save  that  I  stand  here  among  you,  look  on  faces 
that  are  dear,  and  know  that  God,  by  some  myste- 
rious messenger,  hath  snatched  me  from  destruction." 

As  he  ceased,  his  friends  thronged  around  him, 
with  the  most  affectionate  congratulations.  Little 
children,  who  had  often  wept  during  the  narrative, 
pressed  near,  that  they  might  lay  their  hand  upon 
one,  who  had  witnessed  such  marvellous  things. 

The  pastor  came  forward  into  the  centre  of  the 
circle,  as  a  father  enters  among  his  children.  Laying 
his  hand  solemnly  on  the  head  of  Laurens,  he  said, 
"  This,  my  son,  was  dead  and  is  alive  again,  was 
lost  and  is  found."  They  understood  his  inference 
unspoken,  and  kneeling  upon  the  green  turf,  joined 
the  holy  man,  in  fervent  thanksgiving  to  their 
Almighty  Protector. 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  51 

To  this  scene  of  pious  gratitude,  succeeded  a  re- 
cital of  the  danger  and  preservation  of  the  colony, 
to  which  the  rescued  hrother  listened  with  intense 
interest  and  deep  astonishment.  Features  of  simi- 
larity were  recognized  in  the  mysterious  being  who 
had  effected  this  double  deliverance,  though  a  highly 
excited  imagination  had,  in  the  case  of  Laurens,  in- 
vested him  with  more  of  supernatural  influence. 
Those  events  long  supplied  the  colony  with  a  sub- 
ject for  the  hour  of  twilight  musing  and  midnight 
vigil,  a  theme  for  the  wonder  of  childhood,  the  ter- 
ror of  superstition,  the  conjecture  and  speculation 
of  all.  But  the  lapse  of  years  drew  the  curtain 
from  this  mystery,  by  revealing  the  history  of  the 
reo;icide  Judsjes. 

After  the  restoration  of  Charles  the  Second  to  the 
throne  of  Ensiand,  and  his  execution  of  several  of 
the  judges  by  whom  his  father  had  been  condemned, 
most  of  the  others  fled  to  foreign  climes.  Three 
of  them  sought  refuge  on  the  shores  of  New-Eng- 
land." Massachusetts  and  Connecticut  alternately 
afforded  them  protection.  A  cave  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  New-Haven  was  frequently  their  abode,  and 
their  piety  and  dignity  of  manner  propitiated  the 
favor  and  respect  of  the  people. 

When  it  was  understood  in  Great  Britain,  that  the 
Colonels  Whalley,  Dixwell,  and  Goffe,  had  escaped 
to  New-England,  they  were  demanded  by  the  king. 
But  the  colonists  continued  to  shelter  them.  The 
Governor  of  Connecticut,  and  the  settlement  of  New- 


52  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

Haven,  particularly  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the 
cabinet  of  James  II.,  by  their  persevering  republican- 
ism, and  incipient  spirit  of  independence. 

In  1687,  Sir  E'dmund  Andrus,  a  sycophant  of  the 
House  of  Stuart,  in  its  vacillating  and  vindictive 
policy,  entered  New- England,  with  the  authority 
and  disposition  of  a  petty  tyrant.  Arriving  at  Hart- 
ford, he  demanded  the  Charter  of  Connecticut.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  room  where  the  consultation  was  held, 
the  lights  were  extinguished,  and  the  important 
parchment  disappeared.  A  bold  and  cautious  hand 
deposited  it  in  the  hollow  heait  of  an  oak, — which 
henceforward  acquired  imperishable  fame,  and  still 
flourishes  in  vigorous  and  green  old  age. 

Sir  Edmund  Andrus,  proceeding  to  New-Haven 
fixed  his  suspicious  eye  on  a  stranger  whom  he  ac- 
cidentally encountered,  and  pronounced  to  be  one 
of  the  resricides  in  dissjuise.     He  instituted  a  strict 
search  for  the  man,  but  both  vigilance,  and  bribe 
proved  ineffectual.     This  was  indeed  Col.  Dixwell 
who,  with  his  associates,  had  been  "  hunted  as  a  par 
trid^e  on  the  mountains."     Having;  for  a  Ions;  pre 
vious  period  been  unmolested,  he  occasionally  ven 
tured  to  walk  in  the  streets,  and  even  to  attend  pub 
lie  worship.     Reading  in  the  eagle  glance  of  the 
haughty  minion,  that  lie  was  singled  out  for  immo- 
lation, he  instantly  withdrew,  and  was  long  invisible 
to  his  most  faithful  adherents.     Sometimes  caverns 
afforded  him  refuge  ;  at  others,  he  threw  himself 
on  the  good  faith  of  strangers,  and  found  conceal- 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  53 

ment.  It  was  asserted  that  a  cave  in  the  vicinity 
of  Oxford  was  among  his  favorite  retreats,  and 
the  date  of  the  events  which  we  have  just  record- 
ed, corresponds  with  this  period  of  his  flight  and 
seclusion. 

Bein^  a  man  of  native  address,  and  military  en- 
terprise,  he  had  previously  mingled,  though  unknown, 
in    scenes   of  conflict  with   the  ahorigines.     Their 
traits  of  character  had  interested  him  as  a  study, 
and  having  become  acquainted  with  some  words  of 
their  lan^yuafre,  it  was  said  that  he  made  use  of  them, 
together  with  a  wild  and  imposing  suit  of  apparel, 
a  blazino-  torch,  and  a  sword  which  had  served  in 
the  wars  of  Cromwell,  to  accomplish  such  results 
as  those  which  we  have  related.     It  was  also  said 
that  Father  Daille  had  visited  him  in  his  subterra- 
nean retreat,  and  been  intrusted  confidentially  with 
his  agency  in  these  occurrences,  and  with  other  parts 
of  his  history.   Be  that  as  it  may,  Col.  Dixwell,  who 
was  a  man  of  superior  talents,  and  religious  sensi- 
bility, and,  as  the  quaint  writers  of  that  age  assert, 
"  possessed  of  manifest  great  education,"  took  plea- 
sure  in  evincing,  as  far  as   his  precarious  situa- 
tion admitted,  his  grateful  sympathies  in  the  wel- 
fare of  a  people  who  had  saved  him  from  the  scaf- 
fold. 

The  settlement  at  Oxford  continued  gradually  and 

steadily  to  attain  prosperity.     An  air  of  neatness 

and  comfort  pervaded  its  rustic  dwellings.     In  the 

vicinity   of  many   of  them,  the   vines  of   France 

'  E2 


54  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

were  seen  reaching  forth  their  young  tendrils,  and 
striving  to  sustain  existence  with  the  smiles  of  a  less 
genial  sun.     The  pastor,  who  had  led  his  flock  into 
foreign  folds,  shared  in  all  their  concerns  with  a  sym- 
pathy and  zeal  that  knew  no  declension.     In  their 
secular  affairs  he  aided  with  his  advice,  in  their  sick- 
nesses he  sat  by  their  bed,  combining  the  skill  of  the 
temporal  healer  with  the  higher  offices  of  the  spirit- 
ual physician.     Piety  was  not  worn  by  him,  only 
as  a  sabbath  garb.  Every  day  he  wrapped  its  man- 
tle around  his  spirit.     It  attended  him  in  his  domes- 
tic duties,  in  all  his  companionship  with  men.  It  was 
like  an  undying  lamp,  of  the  mildest  radiance,  ever 
beaming  on  his  path,  and  enlightening  the  steps  of 
others.    No  one  could  be  long  in  his  presence,  with- 
out perceiving  that  his  heart  was  above.     Yet  this 
was  not  evinced  by  moroseness,  or  contempt  of 
earthly  cares,  or  sternness  towards  weaker  spirits, 
but  by  a  gentle  and  powerful  influence,  which  ele- 
vated the  thoughts  and  affections  of  those  around. 
In  his  visits  to  his  people,  the  unrestrained  flow  of 
discourse  prompted  every  heart  to  pour  itself  out  to 
him.     Little  children  gathered  near  him,  and  learn- 
ed to  associate  the  name  of  their  Redeemer  with  the 
sacred  lips  that  told  them  of  his  love.     Amid  the 
unchecked  pleasure  of  this  parochial  intercourse,  the 
simple  raising  of  his  benign  eye  to  Heaven,  was 
understood  by  his  confiding  and  affectionate  peo- 
ple,  as   a  signal   for  the  spirit  to  commune  with 
its  Father,  if  it  were  only  through  the  aspiration  of 
a  moment. 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  55 

In  his  partner,  he  found  a  congenial  mind,  and  a 
helper  in  every  toil.     Though  her  education  and 
manners  might  have  qualified  her  to  move  in  courts, 
she  found  no  greater  delight  than  in  zealously  aid- 
ino-  her  husband  in  his  responsible  duties,  particular- 
ly'in  the  instruction  of  the  children  of  the  commu- 
nity, and  the  comfort  of  disease  and  affliction.    Ac 
customed  to  the  pursuits  and  accomplishments  of 
refined  society,  the  only  recreation  in  which  she  now 
indulged  herself,  was  the  culture  of  a  few  flowers  ; 
and  o"ne  of  the  highest  gratifications  which  they  fur- 
nished her,  was  sometimes  to  lay  them,  m  all  their 
beauty  and  breathing  fragrance,  upon  the  pillow  of 
the  sick.  The  same  benevolence  induced  her  to  turn 
her  knowledge  of  the  physiology  of  plants  to  practical 
use.    A  part°of  her  garden  was  devoted  to  the  rear- 
incr  of  medicinal  herbs,  and  her  skill  in  their  applica- 
lion  enabled  her  often  to  alleviate  physical  suffering. 
Yet  no  diseases  of  a  serious  nature  had  hitherto  appear- 
ed amoncr  them,  notwithstanding  the  influence  of  a 
comparatively  severe  climate,  might  have  been  ex- 
pected  to  put  in  requisition  the  more  efficient  aids 
of  medical  science.     But  their  state  of  society  for- 
ciblv  illustrated,  how  industry,  moderated  desires, 
and  habitual  cheerfulness,  promote  health  of  body,  as 
well  as  health  of  mind. 

Somewhat  more  than  three  years  had  elapsed, 
since  the  establishment  of  the  colony.  The  autumn 
of  1690  was  advancing  towards  its  close.  Copse 
and  forest  exhibited  those  varied  and  opposing  hues, 


56  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

which  array  in  such  surprising  beauty  and  brilliance, 
the  foliage  of  New-England.  The  harvest  was  com- 
pleted, and  every  family  was  in  preparation  for  the 
claims  of  a  cold  and  dreary  season.  Children  might 
still  be  seen,  bearing  toward  their  habitations,  bas- 
kets of  those  nuts,  which  were  to  vary  the  banquet 
of  their  winter  evenings.  The  elastic  atmosphere 
gave  vigor  to  their  spirits,  and  their  Uttle  voices 
clamored  joyously  and  incessantly.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see  their  healthful  and  innocent  faces,  like  bright 
flowers  amid  those  wilds,  so  lately  tenanted  by  the 
copper-colored  Indian,  and  the  sable  bear. 

Among  these  happy  groups,  were  the  beautiful 
children  of  St.  Maur ; — Antoine,  a  boy  of  eight,  and 
Elise,  four  years  younger.  They  were  peculiarly 
dear  to  their  father,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
having  the  sole  charge  of  them.  Their  mother, 
whose  delicate  frame  had  been  exhausted  by  the 
hardships  of  persecution,  died  during  her  voyage  to 
America.  The  passage  had  been  rude  and  boister- 
ous, and  the  fearful  tempests  which  marked  their 
approach  to  a  wintry  coast,  annihilated  that  feeble 
hope  of  her  recovery,  which  affection  had  cherished. 
During  a  violent  storm,  while  the  ship  tossed  as  if 
the  deep  were  about  to  engulf  her,  that  pale  mother 
sat  the  whole  night,  with  her  infant  on  her  bosom. 
She  was  not  willing  to  transfer  it  to  other  arms. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it : — their  long  and  tender 
glance  seemed  to  say, — "  It  is  the  last  time."  When 
the  morning  dawned,  she  kissed  the  baby,  and  laid 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  57 

it  in  her  husband's  bosom.  Antoine  remembered  as 
long  as  he  lived,  that  she  clasped  her  cold  hands 
upon  his  little  head,  and  said  faintly, — "  The  cup 
that  my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it?" 
— and  that  in  a  few  moments  she  was  stretched  out, 
motionless,  and  dead. 

It  was  not  wonderful  that  St.  JMaur  should  regard 
these  motherless  ones,  the  companions  of  his  exile, 
with  extreme  tenderness, — that  he  should  desire  to 
watch  over  them  every  moment.  With  his  permis- 
sion to  join  tlieir  companions,  in  nut-gathering,  he 
mingled  an  injunction  to  return  home  before  sunset. 
Delighted  with  their  enlivening  occupation,  they  saw 
with  regret  the  sun  declinino-  toward  the  west,  but, 
obedient  to  their  father's  command,  took  leave  of 
their  companions,  and  departed  from  the  forest.  On 
their  homeward  path,  they  discovered  profuse  clus- 
ters of  the  purple  forest-grape,  and  entered  a  rocky 
recess  to  gather  the  additional  treasure.  Suddenly, 
they  were  seized  by  two  Indians.  Antoine  strug- 
gled violently,  and  every  feature  was  convulsed  with 
ann-er.  His  little  sister  stretciied  out  her  hands  to 
him  for  protection,  but  in  vain.  When  the  first  tu- 
mult of  surprise  had  subsided,  the  keen  eye  of  the 
boy  took  note  of  every  angle  in  the  path,  every  brook 
that  they  forded,  every  hill  that  was  ascended,  deter- 
mining, if  possible,  to  effect  an  escape.  He  was 
grieved  that  darkness  so  soon  prevented  his  observa- 
tion of  the  country. 

The   night  was  considerably  advanced,  ere  the 


5S  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD 

Indians  halted.  They  kindled  a  fire,  and  offered 
the  children  some  of  the  food  which  they  carried 
with  them.  The  heart  of  Antoine  swelled  high, 
and  he  refused  to  partake.  But  the  little  girl  took 
some  parched  corn,  and  sat  on  the  knee  of  the  rude 
Indian.  He  smiled,  when  he  saw  her  eat  the  kernels, 
and  look  up  in  his  face  with  a  trusting,  reproachless 
eye.  Then  they  lay  down  to  sleep,  each  with  a  cap- 
tive in  his  arms. 

Antoine  wisely  restrained  his  impatience,  and  re- 
mained perfectly  still,  until  the  grasp  that  confined 
him  relaxed,  and  deeper  breathing  denoted  slumber. 
Then,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  he  crept  away 
from  the  side  of  his  captor.  Softly  rismg  on  his 
feet,  he  looked  on  the  sleeping  group.  Nothing  was 
heard,  save  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  which  blazed 
up  high  and  bright  in  the  forest,  and  the  distant  growl- 
ing and  moaning  of  a  bear,  as  if  bereaved  of  her 
cubs.  The  heart  of  a  child  at  the  lone  hour  of  mid- 
night, who  had  never  before  been  separated  from  the 
side  of  a  parent,  might  well  shudder  at  a  scene  so 
awful.  But  new  and  strange  courage  enkindled,  when 
he  recollected  that  he  was  the  sole  protector  of  his  little 
sister,  and  that  their  father  was  now  miserable  for 
their  loss. 

The  innocent  child  lay  sleeping  upon  the  damp 
ground,  her  head  resting  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
dark,  red  man.  She  seemed  like  a  rosebud  broken 
from  its  stalk,  and  dropped  in  some  dismal  vault, 
where  the  slimy  snake  gliding  from  its  nest,  enfolds 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  5  ) 

it  in  a  venomous  coil.  Her  tiny  hand,  pure  as  wax, 
lay  among  the  long,  black  locks  of  the  Indian,  and 
her  ruby  lips  were  slightly  parted  by  her  soft  and 
quiet  breathing. 

Her  brother,  brushing  away  the  thick,  dark  curls 
that  clustered  around  his  forehead,  bent  over  her. 
He  wished  to  snatch  her  from  durance,  and  bear  her 
to  her  home.     He  espied  a  tomahawk,  and  seized  it. 
Terrible  designs  took  possession  of  his  mind.     He 
believed  that  he  could  cleave  the  skull  of  the  sleep- 
ing Indians.     At  that  moment,  his  guard  awoke. 
What  was  his  astonishment  at  beholding  a  child, 
whom  he  had  deemed  incapable  of  meditating  resist- 
ance, armed  with  a  deadly  weapon,  and  his  dark 
eyes  flashing  with  all  a  warrior's  spirit !     He  could 
not  but  gaze  on  him  for  a  moment  with  admiration, 
for  the  son  of  the  forest  respects  valor  in  a  foe,  and 
to  the  sight  of  the  brave  he  was  beautiful. 

Disarming,  and  securely  pinioning  the  infant  \yar- 
rior,he  again  stretched  himself  upon  his  bed  of  turf. 
Antoine  struggled  vainly,  and  at  length,  overcome 
with  fatigue  and  sorrow,  mourned  himself  into  a 
broken  slumber.  Yet  in  his  dreams,  he  incessantly 
started  and  complained,  sometimes  exclaiming,— "Oh 
my  poor  father,"— or,  «  See  !  see !  they  have  mur- 

dered  the  child." 

When  it  was  discovered  in  the  colony,  that  the 
children  of  St.  Maur  had  not  returned,  alarm  and 
sympathy  became  general.  Every  spot  was  explor- 
ed,  where  it  was  supposed  possible  that  they  might 


60  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

have  lingered,  or  wandered.  Lights  wera  seen,  in 
every  direction,  to  glimmer  and  recede  hke  the  lamp 
of  the  fire-fly ;  and  for  hours,  upland  and  valley  re- 
sounded with  their  names.  But  when  their  little 
baskets  were  found  overturned,  and  their  contents 
scattered  in  disorder,  one  terrihle  conclusion  burst 
upon  every  mind,  that  they  must  have  been  captur- 
ed by  Indians. 

With  the  dawn  of  morning,  the  men  of  the  colony 
were  assembled  at  the  door  of  St.  Maur.  Many  of 
them  bore  arms,  anxious  to  go  immediately  and  de- 
mand the  lost.  Their  pastor  was  already  there, 
consultino;  with  the  agonized  father.  The  gestures 
of  St.  Maur  were  strong,  and  his  voice  fervent  in 
argument,  but  the  countenance  of  the  sacred  teacher 
was  fixed,  as  one  who  prevails.  At  length.  Father 
Daille,  advancing,  said, — 

"It  is  decided  that  only  St.  Maur  and  myself,  go, 
and  require  our  lost  babes  of  the  savage  king.  If 
it  be  true,  as  we  have  supposed,  that  some  germ  of 
goodness  still  dwells  in  the  hearts  of  this  fierce  peo- 
ple, they  will  listen  to  a  sorrowing  father,  and  a  man 
of  God.  Go  to  your  homes,  and  pray,  that  we 
may  find  favor  in  his  sight.  We  give  you  thanks 
for  your  sympathy,  but  resistance  unto  blood  might 
end  in  the  destruction  of  our  colony.  It  might  fail 
to  restore  the  lambs  who  are  lost :  it  might  lay  our 
whole  fold  desolate.  Return  to  your  homes,  my 
children.  Not  by  the  sword,  or  the  bow  can  ye 
aid  us,  but  by  the  uplifting  of  humble  hearts  and 
faithful  hands." 


LEGEND     OF    OXFORD.  61 

The  ambassadors  to  a  savage  monarch,  pressed 
the  hands  of  their  friends  and  departed.  They  met 
an  Indian  pursuing  the  chase,  who  had  occasionally 
shared  their  hospitality,  and  consented  to  become 
their  guide.  After  travelling  till  the  evening  shades 
approached,  they  encountered  a  number  of  warriors, 
attended  by  one  who  seemed  to  exercise  the  func- 
tions of  Chief.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  earth, 
like  one  addicted  to  melancholy  thought,  and  as  he 
raised  his  brow,  it  exhibited  deep  furroWs  of  age 
and  sorrow.  His  glance  was  unspeakably  stern, 
as  if  it  suddenly  met  objects  of  disgust,  or  hatred. 

"  Our  Prophet,"  said  the  guide,  bending  low  in 
reverence.  "  He  understands  your  language.  He 
can  interpret  the  will  of  the  Great  Spirit.  Our  people 
fear  him." 

Father  Daille  respectfully  accosted  him, — "  Pro- 
phet of  the  Great  Spirit,  we  come  in  peace.  We 
are  told  that  thou  revealest  hidden  things.  Canst 
thou  tell  us  au2;ht  of  two  wanderinsf  babes  ?  When 
last  the  sun  sank  behind  the  mountain,  we  gathered 
our  lambs  into  the  fold,  but  these  came  not.  If,  in 
thy  visions,  thou  hast  heard  the  cry  of  the  lost,  we 
pray  thee  to  guide  a  mourning  father,  where  he  may 
once  more  shelter  them  in  his  arms." 

The  Prophet  remained  silent  for  several  minutes, 
haughtily  surveying  them.  Then  in  a  hoarse,  hollow 
tone,  he  replied — 

"  What  should  the  red  man  know  of  the  offspring 
of  his  enemies  1 — What !  but  to  appoint  to  the  sword, 

F 


62  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

such  as  are  for  the  sword,  and  to  cast  such  as  are 
for  the  burnmg,  into  the  flame?" 

"  Hath  thy  Great  Sph'it,"  said  the  Pastor,  "  any 
deho-ht  in  the  blood  of  babes  ?  The  God  whom  we 
worship,  saith  from  heaven,  that '  He  hath  no  pleasure 
in  the  death  of  him  that  dieth.'  " 

"  Go  your  way,"  said  the  hoary  Prophet,  '•  go 
your  way,  and  teach  white  men  not  to  swear  falsely, 
and  not  to  steal  from  the  sons  of  the  forest,  the  lands 
that  their  fathers  gave.  Go,  and  when  thou  hast 
taught  them  these  things,  tell  me  the  words  of  thy 
God,  and  I  will  hear  thee.  Since  the  eye  of  the  pale 
race  first  looked  upon  us,  we  have  had  no  rest.  We 
ask  only  to  hunt  in  our  own  woods,  to  guide  the 
canoe  over  our  own  waters,  as  we  have  done  from 
the  beginning.  But  you  breathe  upon  us  with  thun- 
der-blasts, you  pour  poison  into  our  veins,  you  pur- 
sue us,  till  we  have  no  place  even  to  spread  out  our 
blankets.  We  die.  But  we  may  not  hide  even  in  the 
grave.  From  thence,  ye  cast  out  our  bones.  Ye 
disturb  the  ashes  of  our  fathers.  Why  do  ye  tell 
us  that  your  God  hath  made  us  brethren  ?  Your 
words  and  your  ways  war  together.  They  are  as 
the  flame  and  the  waters.  One  riseth  up  to  heaven, 
and  the  other  quencheth  it." 

The  meek  Christian  answered, — "  All  white  men 
obey  not  the  truth.  When  they  seek  to  do  good, 
evil  overtakes  them,  and  their  hearts  are  v/eak.  Is 
it  not  so  with  some  of  our  red  brethren?  Yet  v/e 
despise  not  the  words  of  thy  Great  Spirit,  because 
some  of  his  followers  are  false." 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  63 

While  they  were  conversing,  a  man  of  a  noble 
countenance  approached,  who  by  his  coronet  of 
feathers  seemed  to  be  the  king,  and  St.  Maur  ad- 
dressed him. 

"  Kino-  of  the  Red  Men,  thou  seest  a  father  in 
pursuit  of  his  babes.  He  trusts  himself  fearlessly 
with  you,  for  he  has  heard  that  your  people  will  not 
harm  the  stranger  in  distress.  The  king  of  our  own 
native  land,  who  should  have  protected  us,  turned  to 
be  our  foe.  We  fled  from  our  dear  homes,  and  from 
the  graves  of  our  fathers.  The  ocean- waves  brought 
us  to  this  New  World.  We  are  a  peaceful  race, 
pure  from  the  blood  of  all  men.  We  seek  to  take 
the  hand  of  our  red  brethren.  Of  my  own  kindred 
none  inhabit  this  wilderness,  save  two  little  buds 
from  a  broken  and  buried  stem.  Last  night,  bitter 
sadness  was  on  my  pillow,  because  I  found  them 
not.  If  thou  knowest,  O  king,  where  thy  people 
have  concealed  them,  I  pray  thee  to  restore  them  to 
my  lonely  arms.  So  shall  the  Great  Spirit  shed 
pure  dew  upon  thy  tender  plants,  and  lift  up  thy 
heart  when  it  weigheth  heavily  in  thy  bosom." 

The  Indian  monarch  bent  on  the  speaker  a  scru- 
tinizing  glance,  and  inquired — 

"  Knowest  thou  this  brow  ? — Look  in  my  eyes, 
and  answer  me,— are  they  those  of  the  stranger  ?" 

St.  Maur,  regarding  him  attentively,  replied, — "  I 
have  no  knowledge  of  thy  countenance,  save  what 
this  hour  bringeth  me." 

"Thus  is  it  ever  with  the  white  man.     He  is 


64  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

dim-eyed.  He  cannot  see  through  the  disguise  of 
garments.  Where  your  ploughs  wound  the  earth, 
I  have  oft  stood,  watching  your  toil.  There  was  no 
coronet  upon  ray  brow.  But  I  was  a  king,  though 
your  people  knew  it  not.  I  saw  among  them  nei- 
ther violence,  nor  pride.  I  went  thither  as  an  enemy, 
but  returned  a  friend.  I  said  to  my  warriors,  '  Do 
these  men  no  harm.  They  are  not  like  the  Englisli. 
They  do  not  hate  Indians.'  The  Prophet  of  our  great 
Spirit  rebuked  me.  He  brought  me  angry  words 
from  the  shade  of  my  buried  fathers. 

"  Again  I  sought  the  spot  where  thy  brethren  dwell. 
Yes, — I  entered  thy  house.  And  thou  knowest  not 
this  brow  !  I  could  read  thine  at  midnight,  thoug;h 
but  a  single  star  trembled  through  the  thick  cloud. 
My  ear  would  remember  thy  voice,  though  the  loud 
storm  was  abroad  with  its  thunders.  I  came  to  thy 
home  hungry.  Thou  gavest  me  bread.  My  head 
was  wet  with  the  tempest.  Thou  badest  me  to  lie 
down  beside  thy  hearth.  Thy  son,  for  whom  thou 
mournest,  covered  me  with  a  blanket.  I  was  heavy 
in  spirit,  and  thy  little  daughter  whom  thou  seekest 
sat  on  my  knee,  and  smiled  when  I  told  her  how 
the  beaver  buildeth  his  house  in  the  forest.  My 
heart  was  comforted.  It  said,  she  does  not  hate 
Indians,  for  she  looked  on  my  face,  as  the  lamb 
turneth  to  the  shepherd.  Now,  why  dost  thou  fix 
on  me  such  a  terrible  eye?  Thinkest  thou  that  I 
could  tear  one  hair  from  the  head  of  thy  babes  ? 
Thinkest  thou  that  the  red  man  forgetteth  kindness  ? 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  65 

Thy  children  are  sleeping  in  my  tent.  No  hand 
should  ever  have  harmed  them,  and  when  I  had  but 
one  blanket,  it  should  have  been  their  bed.  Yet  I 
will  not  hide  them  from  thee.  I  know  a  father's 
heart.  Take  thy  babes,  and  return  unto  thy  people." 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  two  warriors  ran  toward 
the  royal  tent.  In  a  moment,  Antoine  and  JElise 
were  in  the  arms  of  their  father.  The  twilight  of 
the  next  day  bore  upward  from  the  rejoicing  colony, 
a  prayer  for  the  heathen  of  the  forest,  and  that  hymn 
of  devout  thanksofivinsf  which  mingles  with  the  music 
around  the  throne. 

The  bordering  aborigines  now  desisted  from  inter- 
ference with  the  settlement  at  Oxford.  The  offices 
of  hospitality  were  renowned,  and  it  appeared  that 
quietness  and  confidence  had  been  again  restored. 
Doubtless,  the  native  urbanity  of  the  manners  of 
France,  pervaded,  with  a  softening  and  conciliating 
influence,  even  the  savage  breast. 

An  industrious  and  intellectual  community,  thus 
suffered  to  be  at  rest,  and  expand  itself,  began  to 
examine  its  resources,  and  to  balance  them  with  its 
wants.  The  elders,  sensible  of  the  value  of  educa- 
tion, for  Louis  14th,  amid  all  his  faults,  had  taught 
his  realm  the  reverence  of  Knowledge,  dreaded  lest 
their  descendants  should  forfeit  that  privilege,  or, 
relapsing  into  a  rude  state  of  society,  forget  to  esti- 
mate it.  Therefore,  they  continually  endeavored 
to  inspire  the  young  with  a  reverence  for  letters. 

The  few  books  which  they  retained,  in  their  sudden 

F  ^ 


66 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


flight  from  the  kingdom,  and  the  treasures  of  their 
own  cultivated  minds,  were  held  in  faithful  steward- 
ship for  the  rising  generation.  The  winter  evening 
fire-side  was  a  perpetual  school.  Knowledge  planted 
by  the  hand  of  affection  in  the  hallowed  sanctuary 
of  home,  is  wont  to  take  deeper  root,  than  "  seed 
sown  by  the  way-side."  Parents,  who  write  with 
their  own  pencils,  lines  of  heaven  upon  the  fresh 
tablet  of  their  children's  souls,  who  trust  not  to  the 
hand  of  hirelings,  their  first,  holiest,  most  indelible 
impressions,  will  usually  find  less  than  others  to  blot 
out,  when  the  scroll  is  finished,  and  to  mourn  for 
when  they  read  it  in  eternity. 

In  the  establishment  of  a  system  of  education, 
the  pastor  was  a  guide,  an  adjunct,  and  a  counsellor. 
The  instruction  of  youth,  he  had  ever  considered  as 
one  of  the  most  sacred  departments  of  his  office. 
Since  their  removal  to  this  new  land,  he  felt  it  as 
involving  peculiarly  the  felicity  and  even  safety  of 
his  people.  Apart  therefore  from  the  religious  in 
struction  which  he  delighted  to  impart,  he  statedly 
convened  the  youth  for  examination  in  the  various 
departments  of  science,  and  by  brief  and  lucid  lectures 
imparted  explanation,  heightened  curiosity,  and  en- 
couraged perseverance.  Ambition  was  thus  strongly 
excited,  and  the  processes  of  agricultural  labor  were 
lightened  and  elevated  by  intellectual  discussions. 
He  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeinir  his  beloved  charge 
initiated  into  the  rudiments  of  that  general  know- 
ledge which  gives  liberality  to  thought,  and  also  of 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  67 

perceiving  the    unbounded  influence  he  was    thus 
obtaining  over  their  opinions  and  affections. 

Madame  Daille  extended  the  same  benevolent  care 
to  the  young  females.  Thrice  a  week,  she  assem- 
bled them  around  her.  The  studies  which  had  been 
assigned  to  them,  and  their  different  grades  of  profi- 
ciency, then  passed  under  her  strict  observation  ;  and 
with  a  union  of  tact  and  tenderness,  she  often  closed 
these  interviews  with  some  historical  fact,  or  concise 
story,  illustrating  a  moral  principle,  reproving  the 
errors  that  she  discovered,  or  enforcing  the  precepts 
of  piety.  To  gain  her  approbation,  was  deemed  a 
sufHcient  reward  for  every  effort,  and  her  frown  was 
deprecated  like  the  rebuke  of  conscience.  It  was 
impossible  that  an  intercourse  of  this  nature  should 
subsist,  without  \^sible  benefit  from  her  superior 
inteUigence  and  accomplishments ;  and  it  was 
remarked  that  these  young  Huguenot  females 
evinced  a  courtesy  of  manner,  and  correctness  of 
style,  which  are  usually  acquired  only  among  the 
more  polished  classes.  Yet  she  was  far  from  so 
refining  the  minds  of  her  pupils  as  to  induce  dislike 
to  those  domestic  duties  which  devolve  upon  their 
sex.  She  was  aware,  that  in  an  infant  colony, 
they  were  severe  in  their  nature  and  of  imperative 
necessity.  Her  instructions  required  their  faithful 
and  cheerful  performance.  Pointing  to  the  fields  of 
flax,  whose  blossoms  tinged  with  a  fine  blue,  the  fair 
vale  around  them,  she  expatiated  on  the  excellence  of 
those  arts  which  could  render  that  beautiful  plant  so 


68 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


subservient  to  the  comfort  of  those  whom  they  loved. 
Hence  the  distaff,  the  loom  and  the  needle  were 
deemed  the  legitimate  companions  of  the  books  that 
gave  knowledge,  or  of  those  domestic  and  social 
enjoyments  to  which  both  industry  and  knowledge 
were  consecrated. 

To  the  energy  which  toil  bestows  and  the  con- 
templative habits  which  seclusion  induces,  the 
Huo-uenots  added  the  softening  influences  of  music. 
Sometimes  a  provincial  ballad,  or  a  national  air, 
warbled  bv  those  who  had  learned  them  as  cradle- 
melodies  in  their  own  vine-clad  realm,  would  touch 
like  the  Ranz  des  Vaches,  the  fountain  of  tears. 
Yet  it  was  seldom  that  they  indulged  in  these  ener- 
vating recollections.  Music  of  a  sacred  character, 
was  their  choice.  It  mio;ht  be  called  one  of  their 
occupations.  It  entered  into  Education  as  a  science. 
It  walked  hand  in  hand  with  domestic  toil.  It  min- 
gled with  the  labors  of  the  field.  It  sanctified  the 
bridal  festivity,  and  blessed  the  cradle  dream.  It 
aided  the  sick,  to  suffer  and  be  still,  and  breathed 
out  its  dirge-like  consolation  when  the  dying  went 
"  downward  to  his  dust."  It  was  at  every  family 
altar,  morning  and  evening,  when  prayer  unfolded 
its  wing,  and  in  their  rustic  church  it  heightened  the 
thrill  of  devotion,  and  gladdened  the  holiness  of  the 
Sabbath. 

It  had  been  the  ambition  of  Father  Daille  that  his 
whole  congregation,  from  the  infant  to  him  of  hoary 
hairs,  should  be  qualified  to  lift  up  in  unison,  the 


*tt.^ 


''*—*'*-*~*»'^'»»JIJ1MW»H<l    i 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  69 

higli  praises  of  their  God.  And  it  was  sweet  to 
hear  those  accordant  voices  swellino-  forth  from  their 
temple  in  the  wilderness,  while  the  echo  of  the  sur- 
rounding woods  prolonged  the  cadence,  and  fostered 
the  stranger  melody. 

Thus  peaceful  and  happy  were  the  colonists  of 
Oxford.  Competence  and  health  sprang  up  as  the 
fruits  of  industry,  and  the  union  of  physical  with 
intellectual  labor,  was  found  to  be  neither  impracti- 
cable nor  ungraceful.  There  came  no  vision  of 
wealth  to  inflate  their  imagination,  no  poison  of  am- 
bition to  corrode  their  hearts.  They  dwelt  together 
in  guileless  and  trusting  brotherhood,  and  the  pastor 
and  Patriarch  daily  praised  the  Eternal  Sire,  that 
one  soul  of  harmony  and  love  seemed  infused  into 
all  his  children. 

This  was  the  aspect  of  the  settlement,  in  the  spring 
of  1700.  It  is  with  sorrow  that  we  darken  this 
-scene  of  more  than  Arcadian  felicity.  It  has  been 
*xientioned  that  the  greater  part  of  the  lands  com- 
^>rehended  in  the  original  purchase  were  held  in 
undivided,  undisputed  possession  ;  that  the  harvest 
was  apportioned  without  jealousy,  and  the  herds 
drew  nutriment  from  a  common  pasture.  Ten  years 
of  peace  and  amicable  intercourse  with  the  abori- 
gines had  lulled  their  apprehensions,  and  with  their 
increase  of  prosperity  and  of  numbers,  came  an 
increasing  demand  for  the  means  of  subsistence. 
It  was  therefore  deemed  expedient  to  reduce  to  cul- 
tivation a  large  expanse  of  land,  at  some  distance 


70  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

from  the  field  of  their  accustomed  labor.  Thither, 
one  fine  vernal  morning,  the  whole  effective  strength 
of  the  colony  was  gathered.  Their  toil  on  the  hither- 
to unbroken  soil,  was  animated  by  a  common  inter- 
est, and  enlivened  by  conversation  which  partook 
of  fraternal  sympathy.  Father  Daille,  who,  like 
pastor  Oberlin,  took  a  personal  interest  in  all  that 
regarded  his  people,  reminded  them  that  the  ensuing 
day  was  the  fourteenth  anniversary  of  their  colonial 
existence,  and  heightened  their  emotions  of  gratitude 
by  contrasting  the  comforts  of  their  present  sim- 
plicity of  life,  with  the  sorrows,  persecutions,  and 
tears  from  which  they  had  escaped. 

Suddenly,  the  report  of  muskets  in  the  direction 
of  their  distant  homes,  filled  every  heart  with  con- 
sternation. Hastening  toward  their  abodes,  with 
agonized  speed,  many  a  husband  and  father  was 
met  by  those  dearest  to  him,  communicating  intelli- 
gence, that  the  Indians  had  been  among  them. 
As  a  fearful  proof  that  their  visit  had  not  been  in 
friendship,  the  body  of  Jeanson,  one  of  the  most 
esteemed  of  their  number,  lay  weltering  in  blood, 
upon  the  green  turf  that  skirted  his  threshold.  They 
entered  his  house,  and  saw  that  the  work  of  savage 
vengeance  was  perfect.  Not  one  had  been  spared. 
The  mother,  with  the  infant  that  she  would  gladly 
have  died  to  shelter,  lay  a  lifeless ,  wreck,  with  its 
mangled  form  clasped  firmly  in  her  arms.  Two 
other  innocents  whose  heads  had  been  dashed  against 
the  hearth-stone,  where  they  had  been  nurtured,  left 


LEGEND   OF   OXFORD.  71 

the  stains  of  their  life-blood,  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
extinction  of  a  whole  family. 

The  astonishment  and  grief  of  the  colonists,  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  describe.  A  part  rushed  in  the 
direction  where  the  spoilers  were  said  to  have  dis- 
appeared, and  the  remainder  considering  this  as  the 
prelude  of  a  general  attack,  removed  all  the  women 
and  children  to  the  fort.  At  night  they  were  joined 
by  their  friends  in  arms,  who  had  through  the  day 
vainly  sought  to  track,  or  to  obtain  information  of 
the  murderers.  But  they  had  learned,  in  the  course 
of  their  pursuit,  the  alarming  fact,  that  the  king,  the 
tried  and  faithful  friend  of  the  colony  was  no  more, 
— that  he  had  been  assassinated  for  his  attachment 
to  the  whites,  by  his  own  people,  instigated  by  the  in- 
furiated prophet.  Sentinels  were  placed,  as  the  dark- 
ness deepened,  and  the  elders  met  in  consultation. 

It  would  seem  that  only  three  Indians  had  been 
seen  on  this  errand  of  death.  They  started  from  an 
adjoining  thicket,  just  as  Jeanson,  who  had  been 
detained  at  home  later  than  his  associates,  was  de- 
parting to  join  them.  His  destruction,  and  that  of 
his  family,  was  the  work  of  but  a  few  moments,  and 
they  disappeared,  ere  the  distant  protectors  could  be 
summoned,  or  even  the  settlement  generally  alarmed. 
"  We  will  again  pursue  them,  with  the  dawn  of 
morning,"  said  Bethu,  the  nearest  neighbor  of  the 
dead.  "  We  will  press,  with  arms  in  our  hands, 
through  the  line  of  their  fiercest  warriors,  and  demand 
hose  blood-stained   barbarians   of   their  prophet 


72  LEGEXD    OF    OXFORD. 

The  shades  of  Conde  and  Coligni  shall  not  reproach 
us  with  suffering  our  brother  to  fall  unavenged.*' 

Boudineau  spoke  next, — an  elder  whose  hair  was 
silvered.  '•  Their  mode  of  warfare  is  as  peculiar 
as  their  habits  of  life.  They  avoid  every  encounter 
of  regular  and  open  battle.  Who  can  pursue  them 
into  their  wilds  with  effect,  or  even  with  rational 
hope  of  return  ?  While  we  strive  to  carry  retribu 
tion  into  their  miserable  wigwams,  will  they  not 
suddenly  fall  upon  the  precious  pledges  we  leave 
behind,  and  extinguish  our  light  for  ever  ]  Have  we 
any  mode  of  defence,  but  perpetual  vigilance,  and 
never  losing  sight  of  our  habitations  ?" 

"  Who,"  exclaimed  Pintard,  "  can  endure  this  spe- 
cies of  oppression,  this  spiritless  submission  to  an  abject 
foe,  this  everlasting  dying  to  avoid  death  1  If  we  are 
to  live  the  lives  of  cowards,  it  were  better  to  do  so 
amono"  civilized  men,  than  to  teach  the  free-born 
spirits  of  France  to  shudder  and  watch  the  skulking 
steps  of  savages,  those  links  between  animal  nature 
and  humanity." 

*'  Our  fallen  brother,"  said  Sejournie,  "  could  not 
have  awakened  the  personal  hatred  of  the  natives, 
he  who  was  even  proverbially  peaceful  and  amiable. 
P.Iay  we  not  therefore  suppose  that  the  situation  of 
his  house  being  on  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement, 
Induced  the  murderers  to  select  it,  as  affording  facili- 
ties for  their  purpose,  with  the  least  danger  of  re- 
taliation? Is  it  not  also  probable  that  the  absence 
of  the  men  of  the  colony  was  known  to  them,  and 


LEGEND    OF   OXFORD.  "73 

that  this  determined  their  choice  of  time  for  the  de- 
predation 1  If  there  was  no  individual  enmity,  this 
fearful  deed  marks  latent  hostility  to  the  whole,  and 
a  hostility  distinguished  by  that  cunning  which  pre- 
dominates in  their  character.  May  we  not  consider 
this  unprovoked  act,  as  the  beginning  of  a  series  of 
the  same  complexion?  The  murder  of  the  pacific 
king,  and  the  predominance  of  the  prophet's  influ- 
ence, give  us  fearful  premonition  of  what  we  are  to 

expect." 

«  Let  us,"  said  Rollin,  resign  these  lands,  and 
incorporate  ourselves  with  some  larger  colony.  Our 
force  is  inadequate  to  cope  with  the  tribes  upon  our 
boundary.  It  is  better  to  bear  the  charge  of  pusil- 
lanimity, which  this  measure  might  involve,  than  to 
have  our  blood  wasted  drop  by  drop,  by  a  foe  not 
tangible,  who  springs  like  a  Hon  from  the  thicket,  or 
breaks  with  his  war-whoop  upon  the  midnight  dream, 
or  desolates  the  fire-side  and  the  cradle,  if  the  father 
forsakes  it  but  for  a  moment." 

''  We  came  to  these  wilds,"  said  Boudoin, "  to  wor- 
ship God  freely,  and  to  live  in  peace  with  man  :  yet 
we  still  seem  to  be  in  warfare,  or  in  dread  of  it,  or 
as  a  city  besieged.  While  we  thus  stand  in  armor, 
the  toils  by  which  we  gain  subsistence  must  lan- 
guish or  be  laid  aside.  So,  that  the  death  which  we 
ward  off  by  the  sword,  comes  by  famine.  To  a  people 
of  peaceful  creed,  this  military  watchfulness,  and 
sleepless  dread,  and  continual  declension,  rob  fleeting 

life  of  its  value." 

G 


74  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

All  expressed  their  opinions,  as  varying  judgment 
or  different  tides  of  emotion  dictated,  and  then,  ac- 
cording to  their  patriarchal  form  of  government,  ap- 
pealed to  the  pastor  as  umpire.  He  spoke  deliber- 
ately, as  one  v/ho  felt  the  importance  of  every 
word  : 

"  We  know  that  the  tribes  upon  our  borders  are 
formidable  in  their  combination.  Their  king  has, 
under  God,  been  the  bond  of  peace  between  us  and 
them.  That  bond  is  severed  for  ever.  We  owe  a 
tear  to  his  memory,  for  his  friendship  to  white  men 
has  cost  him  his  life.  The  counsel  of  Moloch  has 
prevailed  ;  the  fierce  and  vindictive  prophet  is  stir- 
ring up  his  people  to  the  utter  extermination  of  our 
colony.  The  blood-hounds  of  savage  war  are  doubt- 
less to  be  let  loose  upon  our  peaceful  settlement.  The 
disaster  which  has  now  convened  us,  in  mournful 
consultation,  is,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  only  the 
precursor  of  the  storm — the  first  blast  of  the  hurri- 
cane. It  would  seem,  therefore,  the  dictate  of  wis- 
dom, if  not  of  necessity,  to  return  to  that  happy  city 
which  first  sheltered  us,  when  as  exiles  we  sought 
this  New  World.  We  shall  there  find  that  safety, 
which  we  must  here  purchase  at  the  expense  of  blood 
too  precious ;  perhaps,  which  we  are  even  too  few 
in  numbers  to  secure  to  the  helpless  ones,  who  have 
trustingly  followed  us  to  this  wilderness.  We  may 
there,  by  other  employments,  as  well  as  those  of 
agriculture,  gain  subsistence  for  those  who  depend 
on  us ;  and  these  lands  may  eventually  be  disposed 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  75 

of,  to  a  colony  of  more  effective  strength,  or  one 
that  may  more  readily  command  the  aid  of  the  go- 
vernment, in  repelling  aggressions  of  the  aborigines. 
Brethren,  and  sons,  I  have  spoken  my  opinion.  But 
I  am  free  to  confess,  that  I  have  spoken  it  under  the 
pressure  of  emotion.  I  am  this  night  as  a  father 
beu'eaved  of  his  children.  Mv  decision  is  made  in 
sorrow.  Ye,  whose  hearts  are  less  bowed  down, 
decide  in  this  matter.  Judge,  and  we  will  abide  by 
your  decision,  and  may  the  spirit  of  unerring  wisdom 
preside  in  your  council." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  spoke  no 
more,  till  they  ended  their  consultation.  They  pro- 
tracted it,  till  the  morning  shone  full  and  fair  upon 
the  green  hill,  and  the  rough,  gray  stones  of  the  fort 
where  they  were  assembled.  After  canvassing  every 
argument,  and  discussing  every  point  of  feeling,  the 
decision  of  the  majority  was  in  favor  of  imm.ediate 
removal.  The  opinion  was  unanimous,  that  in  or- 
der to  avoid  a  recurrence  of  savage  depredation,  no 
delay  should  take  place,  except  for  unavoidable  pre- 
paration and  the  obsequies  of  the  departed. 

The  succeeding  day  drew  near  its  close,  when, 
bearing  the  bodies  of  the  slaughtered  family,  the 
whole  colony  in  solemn  procession  entered  the  hum- 
ble building  which  had  served  for  a  church.  When 
the  dead  were  stretched  out,  side  by  side,  in  that 
sacred  tenement,  the  wailing  was  deep  and  univer- 
sal. The  father  smitten  in  full  strength, — the  mo- 
tlier,  with  her  youngest  born  strained  to  her  bosom 


76  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

in  death's  convulsive  grasp, — and  two  little  mangled 
forms,  whose  exceeding  beauty  was  remembered  by 
all, — lay  in  silent  and  awful  repose. 

The  man  of  God  waited  until  the  first  waves  of 
ao-ony  were  broken.  Furrows  of  painful  thought 
were  upon  his  brow,  but  his  bearing  was  like  one 
whose  heart  is  in  heaven.  When  there  was  silence, 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the  people. 

"  Ye  know,  that  this  is  the  fourteenth  birth-day 
of  our  village.  We  hoped  to  have  celebrated  it  with 
songs  of  festivity.  Now,  our  melody  is  mingled 
with  the  voices  of  those  who  weep.  The  sweet  in- 
cense that  we  would  have  offered  at  the  altar,  is 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  bitter  herbs.  Yet  He  who 
hath  caused  mourning,  is  also  the  God  of  compas- 
sion. He  will  not  break  the  leaf  driven  before  the 
tempest. 

"  Many  thoughts  press  upon  me  to  be  spoken.  But 
ye  cannot  bear  them  now.  Ye  come  as  the  Israel- 
ites to  their  passover,  with  loins  girded  and  staves 
in  your  hands,  as  men  in  haste  for  a  journey.  But 
go  not  forth  despairing,  though  ye  pass  beneath  the 
cloud.  Take  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  upon  your 
shoulders.  Let  the  wing  of  the  cherubims  oversha- 
dow you.     Arise  and  depart,  for  this  is  not  your 

rest. 

"  Scene  of  our  Refuge  ! — when  our  own  land  cast 
us  out, — thou  little  Zoar,  where  we  prayed  that  we 
might  enter  from  the  storm  of  the  Lord, — vales, 
where  the  sounds  of  our  industry  have  arisen, — for- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  77 

ests,  that  have  yielded  to  our  strokes, — homes  of  our 
happiness,  every  year  more  dear,  hallowed  by  the 
interchange  of  joy,— the  voice  of  supplication,— we 
bid  you  all  adieu !  Holy  Church  '.—consecrated  by 
our  united  prayers,  our  sacred  symphonies, — oui 
hopes  that  rested  not  upon  this  earth,  we  bid  thee 
farewell,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  Wherever  we 
wander,  though  our  tears  should  drop  in  the  foun- 
tains  of  strange  waters,  never  will  we  forget  thee, 
our  Zion  in  the  wilderness.  Lifeless  remains  of  the 
brave  and  the  beautiful,  the  virtuous  and  the  beloved, 

severed  branches — crushed  blossoms — what  shall 

we  say  ? — Ah  !  how  often  will  our  mourning  hearts 
recall  your  images,  as  they  once  were,  as  they  now 
are,  stretched  in  ruins  before  us. 

Souls  of  our  departed  friends  !— if  ye  have  attain- 
ed that  heaven  where  the  storm  beateth  not,  where 
tears  are  wiped  from  all  eyes  for  ever,— if  from  that 
cl^-me  of  bliss,  ye  behold  us  compassed  with  infirm- 
ity and  woe,  teach  us  how  slight  all  the  thorns,  the 
tempests  of  this  pilgrimage,  seem  to  you,  now  you 
are  at  rest.  My  children,  what  awaits  it  where  we 
pitch  our  tents  for  the  brief  remnant  of  this  shadowy 
life  ?— what  avails  it,  if  the  angel  who  removeth  their 
curtains  in  a  moment,  but  find  the  spirit  ready  to  meet 

its  God?" 

He  ceased,— and  the  services  of  devotion  rose  in 
low  and  solemn  response  among  the  people.  Parents 
knelt  among  their  children,  and  with  one  voice  in- 
voked and  blessed  the  King  of  kings.    The  memory 

G  2 


78  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

of  their  sorrows  and  fears,  for  a  season  flee'ed  away 
on  the  soul's  high  aspiration,  as  the  pure  flame  dis- 
perseth  the  smoke  with  its  heavenward  spire.  Hands 
hardened  with  labor,  and  brows  pale  with  watching, 
the  tender,  tearful  eyes  of  the  mother  and  the  babe, 
were  alike  raised  upward,  while  they  gave  thanks  to 
the  Father  of  Mercies. 

A  pause  of  silence  ensued,  and  every  head  was 
bowed,  while  the  unuttered  individual  orison  as- 
cended. They  arose,  and  still  the  pause  continued. 
The  people  lingered  for  their  wonted  benediction. 

"  Part  we  hence,"  said  the  pastor,  "  part  we  hence, 
without  one  sacred  melody  ?  While  the  fountain  of 
breath  is  unsealed,  shall  it  not  give  praise  to  the 
Preserver  ?" 

He  designated  a  plaintive  anthem,  from  the  se- 
venth of  Job.  It  burst  forth  harmoniously,  but  soon 
the  dirge-like  tones  became  tremulous.  After  the 
strain  "  Oh,  remember  that  my  life  is  wind,"  the 
cadence  was  protracted,  as  if  all  melody  had  ceased. 
Still  faintly,  the  m.usic  revivified  : — "  As  the  cloud 
is  consumed  and  vanisheth  away,  so  he  that  goeth 
down  to  the  grave  shall  come  up  no  more.  He  shall 
return  no  more  to  his  house,  the  places  that  have 
known  him  shall  know  him  no  more." 

The  pastor  listened  as  one  who  hears  for  the  last 
time,  sounds  most  dear.  But  the  thrilling  strain  with 
which  the  anthem  closes,  commenced  so  feebly,  as 
to  be  scarce  audible.  It  trembled,  like  the  sighs  of 
a  broken  harp, — it  faltered, — one  or  two  quivering 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  79 

voices  prolonged  it  for  a  moment,— it  ceased,— and 
the  wail  of  sorrow  rose  up  in  its  stead.  Music  could 
no  longer  contend  agamst  the  tumultuous  tide  of 

grief. 

The  man  of  God  stood  up,  and  blessed  the  people, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  church-yard.  There,  upon 
the  fresh,  vernal  turf,  each  coffin  was  laid  by  its  open 
cell.  Kneeling  among  the  graves,  he  poured  forth 
fervent  supplications,  like  the  Prophet  of  Israel,  lift- 
ing his  censer  between  the  dead  and  the  living.  Tears 
were  upon  all  faces,  as  the  bodies  were  deposited  in 
their  narrow  house.  Children  sobbed  aloud,  and 
groans  burst  even  from  manly  bosoms,  as  the  earth, 
falling  upon  the  coffins,  sent  forth  that  hollow  sound, 
which  he  who  hath  paid  the  last  duties  to  the  be- 
loved dead,  hath  felt  in  his  inmost  soul,  but  never 

described. 

The  patriarchal  teacher  spoke,  and  into  every  tone 

his  overflowing  heart  poured  the  feeling  that  it  was 

for  the  last  time. 

"  Graves  of  our  friends  !— those  that  have  been 
long  sealed,  and  those  now  enriched  with  new  trea- 
sure, we  thought  that  our  bones  should  here  have 
rested  with  you.  Looking  upon  your  turf-covering, 
how  often  have  we  said,  '  Here  shall  we  also  be  ga- 
thered unto  our  people  !'  Jehovah  humbleth  the  fore- 
sight  of  man.  He  may  not  even  point  out  where  his 
bed  shall  be,  when  the  wasted  clay  falleth  like  a  fret- 
ted garment. 

«  Graves  of  our  friends  !— We  part  from  you  to  re- 


80  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

turn  no  more.  Our  steps  may  no  more  wander  amid 
your  sacred  mounds,  nor  our  tears  nourish  your 
greenness.  Keep  what  we  have  intrusted  to  you,, 
safe  in  your  cold  embrace,  until  summoned  to  re- 
store it,  by  the  voice  of  the  archangel,  and  the  trump 
of  God. 

"  My  children  !  what  were  man  without  the  pro- 
mise of  the  resurrection?  How  could  he  endure, 
when  the  grave  whelms  his  joys,  but  for  the  sure 
hope  of  eternal  life  1  How  could  he  dare  to  lay 
down  in  the  dreary  tomb,  in  all  the  misery  and  sin- 
fulness of  his  nature,  but  for  the  merits  of  his  Re- 
deemer 1  Ah  !  what  would  be  now  our  mourning, 
if  forced  to  ask  in  uncertainty  and  anguish,  who  will 
roll  us  away  the  stone  from  the  door  of  these  sepul- 
chres 1 

"  Stricken  and  sorrowing  flock,  turn  again  unto  the 
Shepherd  of  your  souls.  He  hath  smitten,  and  he 
alone  can  heal.  He  hath  dispersed,  but  shall  again 
gather  you  into  his  fold.  He  hath  troubled  the  wa- 
ters that  were  at  rest.  But  the  angel  of  mercy  still 
waiteth  there, — the  wounded  spirits  shall  be  made 
whole." 

They  turned  from  the  place  of  sepulchres,  and  the 
next  sun  saw  their  simple  habitations  desolate.  Not 
a  sound  of  rural  labor  was  heard  there.  No  child- 
ren were  seen  searching  for  the  violets  which  early 
sprmg  had  awakened.  Scarcely  the  striking  of  the 
Arab  tents,  produces  a  more  profound  silence,  or  a 
wider  solitude.     The  sons  of  the  forest  roamed  at 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  81 

will  among  the  tenantless  dwellings,  and  the  wild 
fox  found  in  their  ruins  a  covert  for  her  young. 

Nothing  now  remains  of  the  history  of  the  Hu- 
guenots, but  a  few  statistical  facts.     The  romance 
of  their  legendary  lore,  termmated  with  the  abdica- 
tion of  their  colony.     From  the  year  1700,  they  be- 
came incorporated  with  the  inhabitants  of  Boston. 
Their  habits  conciliated  respect  and  regard,  and  their 
character  is  still  maintained  by  their  descendants. 
In  1713,  the  lands  which  they  had  vacated  were 
occupied  by  a  second  colony,  who  still  retained  for 
their  settlement  and  for  the  river  that  environs  it,  the 
names  of  their  Huguenot  baptism.  The  pastor  Daille, 
beloved  almost  to  adoration  by  his  flock,  and  revered 
by  all  around  for  his  example  of  amiable  and  con- 
sistent piety,  was  taken  to  his  reward,  in  the  year 
1715.     His  successor  in  the  sacred  office  was  the 
Reverend  Andrew  de  Mercier,  author  of  the  "Church 
History  of  Geneva,  with  a  political  and  geographical 
account  of  that  Republic."     The  church,  which  it 
was  the  care  of  this  religious  people  to  erect  soon 
after  their  removal  to  Boston,  was  situated  where  the 
present  Universalist  Church,  in  School-Street,  now 
stands,  and  is  designated  in  the  records  of  that  date, 
as  the  "  French  Protestant  Church." 

May  I  be  forgiven  for  adding  one  more  matter  of 
fact,  as  an  additional  witness  to  the  integrity  of  my 
Legend  ?  In  the  Granary  Burying-Ground  in  Bos- 
ton"",  two  lowly  graves  still  legibly  bear  the  simple 
mscription   of  the   "  Reverend   Pierre   Daille,  and 


1 


82  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

Scyre,  his  wife."  Yet  it  is  amid  the  fair  scenery 
of  Oxford,  that  we  gather  the  strongest  evidence  of 
the  truth  of  this  narration,  and  most  visibly  com- 
mune with  the  images  of  a  race,  whose  serene  pa- 
tience, and  unwavering  faith,  render  them  models 
of  primitive  devotion.  There,  a  gray-haired  man 
has  long  pointed  the  traveller  to  a  deep  hollow  in 
the  turf,  and  told  him,  "  This  is  the  spot  where  the 
house  of  Jeanson  stood,  the  French  Protestant,  who 
with  his  whole  family  were  here  massacred  by  the 
Indians." 

The  most  aged  inhabitants  of  that  pleasant  region 
assert,  that  within  their  remembrance,  the  empur- 
pled hearth-stone,  on  which  the  heads  of  those  beau- 
tiful babes  were  dashed,  was  still  seen,  resisting  with 
its  indelible  record  the  action  of  the  elements,  long 
after  every  other  wreck  of  the  dwelling  had  perish- 
ed. But  among  the  most  striking  vestiges  of  this 
interesting  people,  are  the  ruins  of  the  Fort  con- 
structed for  their  defence,  and  bearing  the  antiquity 
of  a  century  and  a  half.  There,  within  a  quadran- 
gle of  ninety  feet,  whence  the  stones  have  been  prin- 
cipally removed  in  the  processes  of  agriculture,  may 
be  still  traced,  the  well,  from  whence  they  drew 
water  in  their  rude,  foreign  home.  Asparagus,  from 
the  original  germs  of  France,  annually  lifts  its  bul- 
bous head  and  its  feathery  banner,  to  attest  the  iden- 
tity of  its  perished  plants.  Fruit-trees,  said  to  be 
descendants  from  their  ancient  nurseries,  still  flour- 
ish, and  are  entwined  by  the  coarse  vines,  and  en- 


LEGEND     OF    OXFORD.  83 

livened  by  the  deep  blush  of  the  indigenous  rose 
of  our  country,  fondly  striving  to  naturalize  the 
strangers. 

There  are  probably  some,  who  will  doubt  the 
truth  of  this  narrative,  and  still  more,  who  will  turn 
from  the  simple  vestiges  of  its  veracity  with  indiffer- 
ence. But  there  are  others  of  a  different  class,  who 
could  not  wander  amid  those  disjointed  stones,  once 
the  rude  barrier  against  the  ruder  savage,  nor  ex- 
plore through  matted  grass  the  paths  of  those  per- 
secuted and  peaceful  emigrants,  nor  reclining  be- 
neath the  shades  so  often  hallowed  by  their  prayers, 
recall  their  firmness  in  danger, — their  chastened  joy 
in  prosperity, — their  serene  and  saint-like  patience, 
in  affliction, — without  feeling  like  the  Law-giver  of 
Israel,  constrained  to  "  put  their  shoes  from  their 
feet,  because  the  ground  on  which  they  stand  is 
holy." 


HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

0 !  BLEST  art  thou  whose  steps  may  rove 
Through  the  green  paths  of  vale  and  grove. 
Or,  leaving  all  their  charms  below, 
Climb  the  wild  mountain's  airy  brow ! 

And  gaze  afar  o'er  cultur'd  plains, 
And  cities  with  their  stately  fanes, 
And  forests,  that  beneath  thee  lie. 
And  ocean  mingling  with  the  sky. 

For  man  can  show  thee  nought  so  fair, 
As  Nature's  varied  marvels  there  ; 
And  if  thy  pure  and  artless  breast 
Can  feel  their  grandeur,  thou  art  blest ! 

For  thee  the  stream  in  beauty  flows, 
For  thee  the  gale  of  summer  blows ; 
And,  in  deep  glen  and  wood-walk  free. 
Voices  of  joy  still  breathe  for  thee. 

But  happier  far,  if  then  thy  soul 
Can  soar  to  Him  who  made  the  whole, 
If  to  thine  eye  the  simplest  flower 
Portray  His  bounty  and  His  power  : 

If,  in  whate'er  is  bright  or  grand. 
Thy  mind  can  trace  His  viewless  hand, 
If  Nature's  music  bid  thee  raise 
Thv  song  of  gratitude  and  praise ; 
H 


86 


THE    LOST    STAR. 


If  heaven  and  earth  with  beauty  fraught, 
Lead  to  His  throne  thy  raptured  thought ; 
If  there  thou  lovest  His  love  to  read ; 
Then,  wand'rer,  thou  art  blest  mdeed ! 


THE  LOST  STAR. 

A  LIGHT  is  gone  from  yonder  sky, 

A  star  has  left  its  sphere  ; 
The  beautiful — and  do  they  die 

In  yon  bright  world  as  here  ? 
Will  that  star  leave  a  lonely  place, 

A  darkness  on  the  night  1 — 
No  ;  few  will  miss  its  lovely  face, 

And  none  think  heaven  less  bright ! 

What  wert  thou  star  of? — ^vanish'd  one, 

What  mystery  was  thine  1 
Thy  beauty  from  the  east  is  gone : 

What  was  thy  sway  and  sign  1    ' 
Wert  thou  the  star  of  opening  youth?— 

And  is  it  then  for  thee, 
Its  frank  glad  thoughts,  its  stainless  truth, 

So  early  cease  to  be  ? 

Of  hope — and  was  it  to  express 

How  soon  hope  sinks  in  shade  ; 
Or  else  of  human  loveUness, 

In  sign  how  it  will  fade? 
How  was  thy  dying  ?  like  the  song, 

In  music  to  the  last, 
An  echo  flung  the  winds  among. 

And  then  forever  past  ? 


HERMITAGE    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE.  87 

Or  didst  thou  sink  as  stars  whose  li^ht 

The  fair  moon  renders  vain? 
The  rest  shone  forth  the  next  dark  night, 

Thou  didst  not  shine  again. 
Didst  thou  fade  gradual  from  the  time 

The  first  great  curse  was  hurl'd, 
Till  lost  in  sorrow  and  in  crime, 

Star  of  our  early  world  ? 

Forgotten  and  departed  star ! 

A  thousand  glories  shine 
Round  the  blue  midnight's  regal  car, 

Who  then  remembers  thine? 
Save  when  some  mournful  bard  like  me 

Dreams  over  beauty  gone, 
And  in  the  fate  that  waited  thee. 

Reads  what  will  be  his  own. 


HERMITAGE  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

O  WANDERER  !  would  thy  heart  forget 
Each  earthly  passion  and  regret, 
And  would  thy  wearied  spirit  rise 
To  commune  with  its  native  skies  : 
Pause  for  a  while,  and  deem  it  sweet  « 

To  linger  in  this  calm  retreat ; 
And  give  thy  cares,  thy  griefs,  a  short  suspense, 
Amidst  wild  scenes  of  lone  magnificence. 

Unmix'd  with  aught  of  meaner  tone, 
Here  nature's  voice  is  heard  alone  : 
When  the  loud  storm,  in  wrathful  hour. 
Is  rushing  on  its  wing  of  power, 


88  HERMITAGE    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE. 

And  spirits  of  the  de^p  awake, 
And  surg-es  foam,  and  billows  break, 
And  rocks  and  ocean-caves  around, 
Reverberate  each  awful  sound 
That  mighty  voice,  with  all  its  dread  control, 
To  loftiest  thought  shall  wake  thy  thrilling  souL 

But  when  no  more  the  sea-winds  rave, 
When  peace  is  brooding  on  the  wave, 
And  from  earth,  air,  and  ocean  rise 
No  sounds  but  plaintive  melodies  ; 
Sooth'd  by  their  softly  mingling  swell, 
As  dayhght  bids  the  world  farewell. 
The  rustling  wood,  the  dying  breeze, 
The  faint,  low  rippling  of  the  seas, 
A  tender  calm  shall  steal  upon  thy  breast, 
A  gleam  reflected  from  the  realii.<?  of  rest. 

Is  thine  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 

Friends  have  deceived,  neglect  hath  wrung? 

Hast  thou  some  grief  that  none  may  know, 

Some  lonely,  secret,  silent  woe  ? 

Or  have  thy  fond  aflections  fled 

From  earth,  to  slumber  with  the  dead? 

Oh  !  pause  awhile — the  world  disowTi, 

And  dwell  with  nature's  self  alone ! 

And  though  no  more  she  bids  arise 

Thy  soul's  departed  energies, 

And  though  thy  joy  of  life  is  o'er. 

Beyond  her  magic  to  restore  ; 
Yet  shall  her  spells  o'er  every  passion  steal, 
And  soothe  the  wounded  heart  they  cannot  heal 


A  FLOWER    IN    A   LETTER.  89 


A  FLOWER  IN  A  LETTER. 

My  lonely  chamber  next  the  sea 
Is  full  of  many  flowers  set  free 

By  summer's  earliest  duty  ; 
Dear  friends  upon  the  garden-walk 
Might  stop  amid  their  fondest  talk, 

To  pull  the  least  in  beauty. 

A  thousand  flowers — each  seeming  one 
That  learnt,  by  gazing  on  the  sun, 

To  counterfeit  his  shining — 
Within  whose  leaves  the  holy  dew 
That  falls  from  heaven,  hath  won  anew 

A  glory  ...  in  declining. 

Red  roses  used  to  praises  long, 
Contented  with  the  poet's  song, 

The  nightingale's  being  over : 
And  lilies  white,  prepared  to  touch . 
The  whitest  thought,  nor  soil  it  much, 

Of  dreamer  turned  to  lover. 

Deep  violets  you  liken  to 

The  kindest  eyes  that  look  on  you. 

Without  a  thought  disloyal : 
And  cactuses,  a  queen  might  don. 
If  weary  of  her  golden  crown, 

And  still  appear  as  royal ! 

Panises  for  ladies  all !    I  wis 
That  none  who  wear  such  brooches,  miss 
A  jewel  in  the  mirror  : 
H2 


M- 


«' 


90  A    FLOWER    IN    A    LETTER. 

And  tulips,  children  love  to  stretch 
Their  fingers  down,  to  feel  in  each 
Its  beauty's  secret  nearer. 

Love's  language  may  be  talked  with  these ! 
To  work  out  choicest  sentences 

No  blossoms  can  be  meeter, — 
And,  such  being  used  in  Eastern  bowers, 
Young  maids  may  wonder  if  the  flowers 

Or  meanings  be  the  sweeter. 

And  such  being  strewn  before  a  bride, 
Her  little  foot  may  turn  aside, 

Their  longer  bloom  decreeing ! 
Unless  some  voices  whispered  sound 
Should  make  her  gaze  upon  the  ground 

Too  earnestly — for  seeing. 

And  such  being  scattered  on  a  grave, 
Whoever  mourneth  there  may  have 

A  type  that  seemeth  worthy 
Of  a  fair  body  hid  below, 
Which  bloomed  on  earth  a  time  ago. 

Then  perished  as  the  earthy. 

And  such  being  wreathed  for  worldly  feast, 
Across  the  brimming  cup  some  guest 

Their  rainbow  colors  viewing. 
May  feel  them, — with  a  silent  start, — 
The  covenant,  his  childish  heart 

With  nature,  made, — renewing. 

No  flowers  our  gardened  England  hath, 
To  match  with  these,  in  bloom  and  breath, 
Which  from  the  world  are  hiding 


A   FLOWER    IN  A   LETTER.  91 

In  sunny  Devon  moist  with  rills, — 
A  nunnery  of  cloistered  hills, — 
The  elements  presiding. 

By  Loddon's  stream  the  flowers  are  fair 
That  meet  one  gifted  lady's  care 

With  prodigal  rewarding ; 
But  Beauty  is  too  used  to  run 
To  Mitford's  bower — to  want  the  sun 

To  light  her  through  the  garden  ! 

And  here,  all  summers  are  comprised — 
The  nightly  frosts  shrink  exorcised 

Before  the  priestly  moonshine  ! 
And  every  wind  with  stoled  feet, 
In  wandering  doAvn  the  alleys  sweet, 

Steps  hghtly  on  the  sunshine ; 

And  (having  promised  Harpocrate 
Among  the  nodding  roses,  that 

No  harm  shall  touch  his  daughters) 
Gives  quite  away  the  noisy  sound, 
He  dares  not  use  upon  such  ground, 

To  ever-trickhng  waters. 

Yet,  sun  and  wind  !  what  can  ye  do, 
But  make  the  leaves  more  brightly  show 

In  posies  newly  gathered? — 
I  look  away  from  all  your  best ; 
To  one  poor  flower  unlike  the  rest, — 

A  little  flower  half-withered. 

I  do  not  think  it  ever  was 
A  pretty  flower, — to  make  the  grass 
Look  greener  where  it  reddened  : 


92  A   FLOWER  IN  A  LETTER. 

And  now  it  seems  ashamed  to  be 
Alone  in  all  this  company, 

Of  aspect  shrunk  and  saddened! 

A  chamber-window  was  the  spot 
It  grew  in,  from  a  garden-pot, 

Among  the  city  shadows : 
If  any,  tending  it,  might  seem 
To  smile,  'twas  only  in  a  dream 

Of  nature  in  the  meadows. 

How  coldly,  on  its  head,  did  fall 
The  sunshine,  from  the  city  wall, 

In  pale  refraction  driven ! 
How  sadly  plashed  upon  its  leaves 
The  raindrops,  losing  in  the  eaves 

The  first  sweet  news  of  Heaven ! 

And  those  who  planted,  gathered  it 
In  gamesome  or  in  loving  fit, 

And  sent  it  as  a  token 
Of  what  their  city  pleasures  be, — 
For  one,  in  Devon  by  the  sea. 

And  garden-blooms,  to  look  on. 

But  SHE,  for  whom  the  jest  was  meant, 
With  a  grave  passion  innocent 

Receiving  what  was  given, — 
Oh !  if  her  face  she  turned  then^  .  .  . 
Let  none  say  't  was  to  gaze  again 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Devon ! 

Because,  whatever  virtue  dwells 
In  genial  skies — warm  oracles 
For  gardens  brightly  springing,— 


THE   pilgrim's  REST.  93 

The  flower  which  grew  beneath  your  eyes, 
Ah,  sweetest  friends,  to  mine  supplies 
A  beauty  worthier  singing  ! 


"THE  PILGRIM'S   REST. 


55 


Pilgrim,  why  thy  course  prolong? 
Here  are  birds  of  ceaseless  song. 
Here  are  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom, 
Here  are  woods  of  deepest  gloom, 
Cooling  waters  for  thy  feet ; 
Pilgrim,  rest ;  repose  is  sweet. 

Tempt  me  not  with  thoughts  of  rest : 
Woods  in  richest  verdure  dressed, 
Scented  flowers  and  murmuring  streams, 
Lull  the  soul  to  fruitless  dreams. 
I  would  seek  some  holy  fane, 
Pure  and  free  from  earthly  stain. 

Based  upon  the  eternal  rock, 
Braving  time  and  tempest's  shock ; 
Seest  thou  not  yon  temple  gray  1 
There  thy  weary  steps  may  stay. 
There  thy  lowly  knees  may  bend, 
There  thy  fervent  tears  descend. 

Has  that  temple  stood  the  storm"? 
Could  no  touch  of  time  deform? 
Was  the  altar  there  so  pure. 
That  its  worship  must  endure  ? 
Whence  those  noble  ruins  then? 
Why  the  wondering  gaze  of  men  ? 


94  THE  pilgrim's  rest. 

No.     The  Sibyl's  power  is  gone ; 
Hushed  is  each  mysterious  ton^e  ; 
Closed  the  eye,  whose  upward  gaze 
Read  the  length  of  human  days; 
Blindly  darkened  to  her  own, 
Shrine  and  goddess  both  are  gone. 

Onward,  then,  my  feet  must  roam ; 
Not  for  me  the  marble  dome. 
Not  the  sculptured  column  high, 
Pointing  to  yon  azure  sky. 
Let  the  Heathen  worship  there, 
Not  for  me  that  place  of  prayer. 

Pilgrim,  enter.     Awe  profound 
Waits  thee  on  this  hallowed  ground. 
Here  n-o  mouldering  columns  fall, 
Here  no  ruin  marks  the  wall ; 
Marble  pure,  and  gilding  gay, 
Woo  thy  sight,  and  win  thy  stay. 

Here  the  priest,  in  sacred  stole, 
Welcomes  every  weary  soul. 
Here  what  suppliant  knees  are  bending! 
Here  what  holy  incense  lending 
Perfume  to  the  ambient  air ! 
Ecstasy  to  praise  and  prayer ! 

Pilgrim,  pause  ;  and  view  this  pile : 
Leave  not  yet  the  vaulted  aisle  : 
See  what  sculptured  forms  are  here  ! 
See  what  gorgeous  groups  appear ! 
Tints  that  glow,  and  shapes  that  live, 
All  that  art  or  power  can  give ! 


THE    pilgrim's    REST.  96 

Hark,  the  solemn  organ  sounds ! 
How  each  echoing  note  rebounds ! 
Now  along  the  arches  high, 
Far  away  it  seems  to  die. 
Now  it  thunders,  deep  and  low, 
Surely  thou  mayst  worship  now. 

Tempt  me  not.     The  scene  is  fair, 
Music  floats  upon  the  air, 
Clouds  of  perfume  round  me  roll ; 
Thoughts  of  rapture  fill  my  soul. 
Tempt  me  not,  I  must  away, 
Here  I  may  not — dare  not  stay. 

Here  amazed — entranced  I  stand, 
Human  power  on  every  hand 
Charms  my  senses — meets  my  gaze, 
Wraps  me  in  a  wildering  maze. 
But  the  place  of  prayer  for  me, 
Purer  still  than  this  must  be. 

From  the  light  of  southern  skies, 
Where  the  stately  columns  rise — 
Wanderer  from  the  valleys  green, 
Wherefore  seek  this  wintry  scene  ? 
Here  no  stranger  steps  may  stay, 
Turn  thee,  pilgrim — haste  away. 

Here,  what  horrors  meet  thy  sight ! 
Mountain- wastes,  of  trackless  height ; 
Where  the  eternal  snows  are  sleeping, 
Where  the  wolf  his  watch  is  keeping, 
While  in  sunless  depths  below, 
See  the  abodes  of  want  and  woe ! 


I. 

96  THE  pilgrim's  rest. 

Here  what  comfort  for  thy  soul ! 
Storm  and  tempest  o'er  thee  roll, 
Spectral  forms  around  thee  rise, 
In  thy  pathway  famine  lies ; 
All  is  darkness,  doubt,  and  fear, 
Man  is  scarce  thy  brother  here. 

Tempter — cease.     Thy  words  are  vain. 
'Tis  no  dream  of  worldly  gain, 
'T  is  no  hope  in  luxury  dressed, 
'T  is  no  thought  of  earthly  rest, 
Earthly  comfort,  or  repose, 
Lures  me  to  these  Alpine  snows. 

I  would  seek,  amid  this  wild. 

Fervent  faith's  devoted  child. 

Holy  light  is  on  his  brow. 

From  his  lip  are  words  that  glow, 

In  his  bosom  depths  of  love 

Filled  from  heaven's  pure  fount  above. 

I  would  follow,  where  his  feet 
Mountain-rocks  and  dangers  meet. 
I  would  join  his  simple  band. 
Linked  together,  heart  and  hand  ; 
There  I  fain  would  bend  my  knee, 
'T  is  the  place  of  prayer  for  me ! 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 


Blest  be  that  art,  which  keeps  the  absent  near, — 
The  beautiful,  unchang'd, — from  Time's  rude  theft 
Guards  the  fresh  tint  of  childhood's  polish'd  brow  — 
And  when  Love  yields  its  idol  to  the  tomb, 
Doth  snatch  a  copy. 


Love  of  Fame,  has  been  called  by  philosophers, 
the  universal  passion.  The  desire  of  adhering  to 
the  memory  of  those  we  love,  is  an  integral  part  of 
our  nature.  We  need  not  turn  to  the  costly  mauso- 
leum, or  the  pyramid  on  the  sands  of  Africa,  to 
prove  this  "  longing  after  immortality."  It  is  equal- 
ly illustrated,  though  on  an  humbler  scale,  by  the 
boy,  who  climbs  a  tree,  to  carve  his  initials  on  its 
trunk, — the  student,  who  defaces  the  college  pre- 
cincts with  multiplications  of  his  nomenclature, — the 
guest,  who  graves  it  upon  the  grotto  of  his  host, 
— the  traveller,  who  inscribes  it  in  the  Alpine  Al- 
bum. 

Yet  there  is  one  modification  of  this  sentiment,  at 
which  I  have  ever  marvelled,  viz, — the  bequeathing 
of  our  bodily  presence  to  posterity,  in  a  style  calcu- 
lated to  disgust,  or  alarm  them.  When  I  have  gazed 
at  Family  Portraits,  whose  ugliness  and  quaintness 
of  costume,  scarcely  the  deepest  reverence  for  their 

I 


98  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

antiquity  could  tolerate,  I  have  wondered  at  the  am- 
bition to  be  exhibited  to  one's  unborn  relatives,  in  a 
deformity  which  nature  never  gave.  It  is  but  a 
doubtful  compliment  to  the  master  of  an  ancient 
mansion,  to  be  obliged  to  contemplate  the  founder 
of  his  house,  perhaps  the  architect  of  its  fortunes, 
expanded  with  angular  joints,  and  an  idiotic  physi- 
ognomy, over  several  square  feet  of  canvas  ;  and 
awkward  flattery  to  a  blooming  belle,  to  be  told  that 
the  demure,  ill-arrayed,  and  hideous  beings,  who 
stare  at  her  from  their  frames,  as  she  hurries  through 
some  unfrequented  apartment,  are  her  progenitors. 
Yet  there  are  remedies  for  such  mortifications, — a 
refuge  in  garrets, — a  deposit  among  lumber, — the 
teeth  of  rats, — the  voracious  perforation  of  worms. 
So  that  those  worthies,  who  in  their  prim  and  pro- 
tracted sittings  to  the  artist,  trusted  to  have  been  ho- 
nored as  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  their  descendants 
for  ever,  to  have  been  produced  as  the  Egyptian 
brings  forth  his  embalmed  ancestor,  to  preside  at  the 
banquet,  and  be  the  chief  ornament  of  the  festival, 
may  esteem  themselves  happy,  should  their  effigies 
escape  utter  annihilation. 

Why  I  have  been  led  to  this  train  of  moralizing, 
the  sequel  of  my  sketch  will  unfold.  The  opening 
of  its  simple  drama  is  in  Boston,  about  the  year 
1722.  According  to  the  most  authentic  statistics, 
it  then  comprised  a  population  not  exceeding  10,000, 
and  sustained  three  weekly  newspapers.  The  ex- 
citing objects  which  now  occupy  the  community, — 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 


£9 


canals, — rail-roads; — and  the  transmigrations  of  the 
power  of  steam, — had  then  no  existence.  Had  any 
speculator  in  the  wildest  excursion  of  his  brain,  ven- 
tured to  present  such  visions  to  the  grave  politicians 
of  that  day,  his  reception  would  have  been  much 
like  that  of  Columbus,  when  before  the  University 
of  Salamanca,  he  broached  his  theory  of  an  undis- 
covered world,  amid  frowns  and  threats  of  the  Inqui- 
sition. 

Still,  there  was  at  this  period,  no  paucity  of  sub- 
jects for  conversation:  and  the  most  engrossing  one, 
was  the  contested  system  of  Innoculation  for  the 
Small  Pox.  Divines  attacked  it  from  the  pulpit, 
styling  it,  "  an  invasion  of  heaven's  prerogative,  a 
most  sinful  lacking  of  faith,  a  high-handed  doing  of 
evil,  that  good  might  come."  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  had  first  ventured  to  naturalize  this  Turk- 
ish practice  in  the  person  of  her  only  son  ;  and  Dr. 
Boylston,  of  Boston,  who  hazarded  the  experiment 
upon  his  son  and  servants,  with  a  happy,  result,  was 
pronounced  by  an  historian  of  the  day,  "  the  first 
physician  in  the  British  dominions,  that  had  dared 
such  a  deed."  Among  the  few  firm  advocates  of 
the  system  of  innoculation,  at  this  period,  was  Dr. 
John  Ranchon,  a  native  of  France.  He  had  resided 
a  number  of  years  in  Boston,  and  being  in  posses- 
sion of  a  competent  estate,  had  withdrawn  from  the 
labors  of  his  profession.  Still  he  could  not  but  sur- 
vey with  deep  anxiety  the  ravages  of  that  terrible 
disease,  which  during  the  year   1721,  had  swept 


ICO  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

nearly  800  persons  from  their  ct)mparatively  sparse 
population. 

But,  de  facto,  our  business  is  with  this  same  Dr. 
Ranchon,  and  circumstances  which  transpired  in  his 
family,  more  than  with  any  dogmas  he  might  adopt 
respecting  the  science  of  Esculapius.  The  cause  of 
his  emigration  to  this  country,  was  the  expected  ven- 
geance, consequent  upon  a  clandestine  marriage. 
Louise  Beauchamp,  whom  he  loved,  and  whose  rank 
was  higher  than  his  own,  had  been  immured  by  her 
relations  in  a  convent,  to  prevent  their  anticipated 
union.  But  her  favorite  brother,  Edward  Beauchamp, 
favoring  the  pretensions  of  the  lover,  an  elopement 
ensued,  and  the  parties  immediately  embarked  for 
this  New  World.  The  young  and  beautiful  wife, 
after  the  residence  of  a  few  years  in  Boston,  gave 
birth  to  an  infant  daughter,  and  died.  The  bereaved 
husband,  in  devotion  to  this  little  orphan,  and  occa- 
sional intercourse  with  the  natives  of  his  own  coun- 
try, passed  most  of  his  time,  and  gradually  found 
solace.  A  colony  of  Huguenots,  who,  after  the  re- 
vocation of  the  Edict  of  Nantz,  had  formed  a  settle- 
ment at  Oxford  in  Massachusetts,  and  were  driven 
thence  by  an  incursion  of  the  Indians,  had  fixed 
their  permanent  residence  in  Boston.  Among  these 
he  found  kindred  spirits,  and  extended  to  them  every 
office  of  kindness  and  hospitality. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  now  speak, — the  year 
1722, — he  had  arrived  at  his  grand  climacteric,  with 
robust  health,  and  an  unbroken  constitution.     He 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  101 

possessed  an  irascible  temper,  andadecifiGn,of!rp^n- 
ner  approaching  to  sternness,  yet  modif.^^l  l}y.  ivitix^ 
benevolence.  Though  somewhat  uaipopula.r,  fivxn 
his  strong  prejudices  and  disregard  of '  ^'ouj'vf;??^;, :  h© , 
was  still  treated  with  deference  by  some  who  respect- 
ed his  professional  skill,  and  by  more  who  rendered 
homage  to  his  wealth.  Especially  as  it  became 
generally  known,  that  he  had  an  only  daughter,  fair, 
and  approaching  woman's  estate ;  the  discernino- 
beaux  were  particularly  assiduous  in  their  attentions. 
He  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  the  flattery  of 
marked  politeness,  though  his  simplicity  of  heart 
induced  him  to  consider  it  as  a  spontaneous  tribute 
to  his  merits.  Yet  he  could  not  avoid  sometimes 
remarking,  in  his  curiously  laconic  style,  to  Beau- 
champ,  who  continued  a  member  of  his  household, — 

"  These  young  fellows  are  better  bred  than  their 
fathers.  The  coming  of  so  many  French  people 
to  live  here,  has  been  a  great  advantage,  no  doubt." 

His  brother,  more  a  man  of  the  world,  and  skil- 
ful in  decyphering  its  motives,  would  reply — 

"  Indeed,  the  young  men  of  the  city  seem  to  bow 
lower,  as  your  daughter  Mary  rises  higher.  They 
carefully  proportion  their  attentions  to  her  increasing 
stature,  and  comfortable  expectations.  Ever  since 
her  fourteenth  birth-day,  a  rapid  improvement  in 
their  manners  has  been  visible.  Your  cane  cannot 
drop  in  the  market-place,  but  half-a-dozen  white 
hands  with  rings  and  ruffles,  are  thrust  forth  to  seize 
and  restore  the  precious  treasure  to  its  venerable 

12 


^ 


> '. 


i.~ 


102  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

ewrer.  Tea  years  since,  you  might  have  fallen  your- 
seif,  \yi^i6ut  a  single  shrug  of  compassion  from  these 
exquisites.  -  Doubtless,  my  good  brother,  your  fame 
\ras'K&ver-' fully  understood,  until  Mary  became  its 
interpreter.  Happy  father  !  whose  beautiful  daugh- 
ter has  no  employment  for  her  tongue,  so  agreeable 
as  to  publish  his  excellencies." 

But  to  Dr.  Ranchon,  who  continued  to  view  Mary 
as  scarcely  emancipated  from  the  nursery,  and  who 
daily  addressed  her  by  his  favorite  appellation  of 
"  baby,"  the  hints  of  Beauchamp  were  altogether 
unintelligible.  He  still  persisted  in  the  course  which 
he  had  originally  adopted,  of  sending  her  to  the 
most  expensive  schools,  asking  her  once  a  week 
how  her  music  and  French  came  on,  and  praising 
every  flower  or  landscape  which  she  produced,  how- 
ever carelessly  executed.  Within  a  year  or  two, 
since  her  uncle  had  reminded  him  that  she  was  as 
tall  as  her  mother,  he  had  begun  to  inquire  if  she 
knew  what  went  to  the  composition  of  a  pudding, 
and  whether  she  could  "  foot  up  an  account  neatly, 
in  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ?"  This  new  class 
of  interrogatories  he  usually  interlarded  with — 

"  Well !  well !  shan't  marry,  except  to  a  genuine 
Huo-uenot ! — remember  that !" 

Then  patting  her  cheeks,  as  the  blood  mantled 
higher  in  them,  would  bid  her  be  a  "good  baby." 
This  injunction  respecting  marriage,  though  it  might 
seem  to  be  given  in  a  trifling  manner,  was  neverthe- 
less decided.  It  was  founded  on  the  old  gentleman's 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  103 

national  partialities,  which  were  exceedingly  strong, 
and  was  understood  by  his  family  to  rank  among 
those  few  positive  commands  of  the  Doctor's  which 
it  was  never  safe  to  disobey. 

Mary,  from  the  blind  indulgence  which  had  almost 
invariably  entered  into  her  education,  would  have 
been  in  imminent  danger,  had  it  not  been  for  a  large 
share  of  native  good  sense.     This,  however,  was 
inadequate  effectually  to  control  passions  naturally 
ardent,  or  to  eradicate  vanity  which,  had  her  look- 
ing-glass been  broken,  would  still  have  gathered  nu- 
triment from  the  flattery  of  her  school-companions. 
She  possessed  symmetry,  though  not  delicacy  of 
form,  a  profusion  of  raven  hair,  a  clear,  brown  com- 
plexion, quickened  by  a  bright  bloom,  and  a  dark, 
piercing  eye.     The  expression  of  her  countenance, 
varying  as  she  spoke,  would  have  rendered  her  pe- 
culiarly interesting,  had   not  her  striking  features 
betrayed  some  consciousness  of  their  own  power,  and 
the  curl  of  her  rose-tinted  lip  betokened  haughtiness. 
Still,  few  could  look  upon  Mary  Ranchon  in  the 
early  blush  of  womanhood,  without  repeating  the 
crlance  ;  though  the  more  judicious  were  compelled  to 
temper  their  admiration  with  pity,  for  her  early  loss 
of  maternal  culture.     Her  self-exultation  was  held 
considerably  in  check,  by  the  penetrating  eye  of  her 
uncle,  whom    she  knew   to   be  a  better  judge  of 
female  elegance  than  her  father,  and  whose  keen 
sarcasms  she  exceedingly  dreaded. 

Beauchamp,  though  not  under  the  guidance  of  that 


i 


104 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 


refinement  which  appreciates  the  unostentatious  vir- 
tue of  the  sex,  if  unadorned  by  wealth  or  beauty, 
still  possessed  that  acute  perception  of  propriety, 
courtesy,  and  accomplishment,  which  springs  from 
intercourse  with  the  more  elevated  ranks  of  society, 
and  is  sometimes  rendered  even  moi'e  watchful  by 
an  acquaintance  with  the  abandoned.  Love  for  his 
niece  prompted  him  to  permit  no  error  in  manner, 
no  consciousness  of  beauty  which  might  weaken  its 
effect,  to  pass  without  the  lash  of  his  satire.  Find- 
ing herself  the  object  of  such  close  criticism,  a  sal- 
utary restraint  was  laid  upon  a  deportment  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  wholly  without  control ; 
and  while  she  shrank  from  the  wit  of  Beauchamp, 
she  respected  his  judgment.  She  could  not  but  per- 
ceive that  the  partiality  of  her  father  often  moved 
him  to  countenance,  or  even  to  applaud  in  her,  ac- 
tions and  expressions  which  conscience  told  her  de- 
served reproof.  Sometimes  when  she  quitted  the 
room  covered  with  blushes  of  chagrin  and  anger, 
because  some  questionable  deed  or  opinion  had  been 
placed  in  a  strong  light  by  her  uncle's  bold  raillery, 
the  kind-hearted  old  gentleman  would  say — 

"  Seems  to  me,  Ned,  you  are  rather  too  sharp  with 
the  girl — pretty  clever  body,  after  all." 

"  The  misfortune  is,  my  sapient  Doctor,  that  she 
is  altogether  too  clever  for  thy  straight- forward  ho- 
nesty. She  compasseth  thy  path,  and  thou  knowest 
it  not.  Thy  astronomy  is  baffled  by  the  "  chang- 
ing Cynthia  in  the  female  heart."   Thou  wert  never 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  105 

expert  in  computing  its  phases.  I  assure  thee,  that 
I  only  keep  a  brotherly  watch  over  thy  interests. 
Why,  baby  Mary,  as  you  call  her,  with  her  hot- 
house politics,  would  bring  a  plant  to  perfection, — 
germ,  flower,  and  fruit, — while  thou  wert  learnedly 
puzzling  over  its  botanical  genus." 

The  truth  was,  that  Mary  had  already  permitted 
herself  to  be  addressed  in  the  language  of  love.  Its 
foundation  had  been  in  a  thoughtless  emulation,  a 
proud  determination  not  to  be  outdone,  as  many 
young  ladies  at  the  boarding-school  where  she  at- 
tended as  a  day-scholar,  were  boasting  of  the  gallant- 
ries of  their  admirers.  Yet  as  he  who  tampers  with 
flame  is  not  always  certain  of  being  able  to  extin- 
guish it,  she  found  that  what  had  begun  in  vanity, 
threatened  to  end  in  pain.  The  man  whose  atten- 
tions she  encouraged,  scarce  knowing  that  she  did 
so,  was  her  senior  by  more  years  than  she  had  num- 
bered, and  no  novice  in  the  science  of  entrapping 
the  aftections.  She  knew  little  respecting  him,  ex- 
cept that  he  was  called  Patten,  to  which  the  title  of 
Captain  was  appended, — that  his  exterior  and  style 
of  conversation  were  imposing, — and  that  he  was 
extravagantly  praised  for  elegance  of  dress  and  man- 
ner, by  her  giddy  associates.  But  she  was  also 
apprized  that  he  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  conse- 
quently, without  the  line  of  her  father's  demarcation. 
She  continually  promised  herself  that  should  the 
affair  take  the  form  of  serious  declaration,  to  repulse 
all  proposals   and  be  governed  solely  by  filial  duty. 


106  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

But  her  hand  was  upon  the  mane  of  the  Hon,  and 
she  knew  it  not.  Her  lover  readily  perceived  that 
she  had  too  much  feeling  for  a  coquette,  and  decided 
to  protract  his  operations,  until  hy  inducing  her  to 
accept,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  those  attentions 
which  belong  to  love,  her  generosity  or  her  gratitude 
should  at  length  render  her  unable  to  repel  his  se- 
rious advances. 

His  design  was  to  possess  himself  of  her  fortune, 
and  he  saw  no  practicable  avenue  to  this  point,  but 
through  her  affections.  He  therefore  made  his  ap- 
preaches  with  that  combination  of  perfect  respect 
and  tender  observance,  against  which  the  heart  of  a 
female  is  seldom  proof.  The  prohibition  of  her  fa- 
ther, which  had  reached  him  by  the  voice  of  rumor, 
rendered  his  visits  at  the  house  inadmissible.  Hence 
their  interviews  were  limited-  to  the  school  which 
Mary  attended,  where  they  were  imprudently  con- 
nived at  by  her  governess.  She  feared  even  to  accept 
him  as  a  companion  in  a  walk  or  ride,  lest  Beau- 
champ,  who  was  a  man  of  leisure,  and  continually 
traversing  the  streets,  should  detect  the  acquaintance. 
Yet,  though  her  lover  was  fully  sensible  of  the  ad- 
vantage which  he  had  gained,  in  persuading  her  to 
accept  concealed  attentions,  she  could  not  long  per- 
sist in  such  a  course  without  self-reproach.  She  en- 
dured the  remorse  of  a  generous  mind,  which,  find- 
ing itself  involved  in  the  mazes  of  duplicity,  gradu- 
ally loses  the  power  of  retracing  its  path.  Some- 
tinies  she  resolved  to  reveal  the  whole  to  her  father, 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  107 

and  throw  herself  upon  his  compassion  :  again  she 
saw  her  lover,  and  the  resolution  vanished  before  his 
powers   of  fascination.     With  the   simplicity  of  a 
first-love,  she  began  to  regard  his   protestations  as 
truth,  to  believe  that  his  felicity  was  indeed  at  her 
disposal,  and  that  her  smile  or  frown  was  to  be  the 
arbiter  of  his  destiny.     She  became  uneasy  thus  to 
trifle  with  the  happiness  of  one  so  perfectly  subser- 
vient to  her  wishes,  and  who  constantly  assured  her 
that  he  would  rejoice  to  lay  down  life  for  her  sake. 
Should  any  grave  female  within  the  safe  precincts 
of  single   blessedness,  condemn  this  credulity,  as 
peculiar  weakness  of  mind,  let  her  retrace  the  an- 
nals  of  her  own  romantic  days,  and  inquire  if  there 
is  no  vestige  of  sympathy  with  Mary  ;  and  though 
she  may  not  have  partaken  in  her  follies,  let  her  ask 
if  she  rose  wholly  superior  to  her  delusions. 

Captain  Patten  now  supposed  that  he  had  gained 
an  eminence  from  whence  the  attack  might  be  suc- 
cessfully opened.  He  pressed  for  permission  to  soli- 
cit her  father  to  sanction  his  addresses.     This  was 
what  she  could  not  grant,— but  ah  !  the  dismission 
which  she  had  always  promised  herself  should  meet 
such  a  proposal,  was  withheld  by  the  hesitancy  of 
her  traitorous  affections.     Angry  at  her  want  of 
decision,  she  yielded  to  all  the  miseries  of  mental 
conflict,— like  the  man  who,  half  a  convert  to  piety 
and  half  the  servant  of  sin,  "  resolves,  and  re-re- 
soives,— then  dies  the  same."     The  tumult  of  her 
spirits  created  a  temporary  indisposition,  and  she  con- 


108  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

filled  herself  to  her  chamber.  Madelaine  Dubelde, 
a  waiting-maid,  who  had  attended  her  mother  in  her 
removal  from  France,  and  since  her  death  had  gra- 
dually elevated  herself  into  the  office  of  house-keep- 
er, and  humble  companion  to  her  young  mistress, 
endeavored  to  divert  her  chagrin  by  such  conversa- 
tion as  would  best  have  dissipated  her  own. 

"Ah,  IMademoiselle  !  if  you  were  but  in  Paris,  with 
that  beautiful  face,  and  that  air  so  graceful,  so  de- 
gagee,  you  would  have  no  time  for  such  terrible  fits 
of  ennui.  Why,  you  would  be  followed  by  more 
adorers  than  could  stand  upon  the  common.  Not 
such  dowdies  as  you  see  in  this  country,  who  dare 
not  look  at  or  speak  to  a  young  lady,  when  they 
meet  her.  Oh  Mon  Dieu  !  I  had  rather  have  a  lodge 
in  the  crookedest  part  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  than 
the  grandest  house  in  the  whole  of  this  mean  village 
of  Boston.  I  certainly  have  seen  nothing  fit  to  eat 
or  drink,  since  I  came  to  this  vile  America.  I  am 
sure  I  should  never  have  become  such  a  perfect  rack- 
a-bone,  if  any  thing  could  have  been  found  here,  which 
a  lady  ought  to  eat.  Why,  dear  IMademoiselle,  if  we 
were  only  in  France,  you  would  have  been  present- 
ed at  court  by  your  mother's  relations,  long  before 
this, — and  think  what  a  stir  you  would  have  made 
among  the  princes  of  the  blood !  Now  here  you  sit 
moping,  day  after  day,  like  a  creature  shut  up  in  a 
pound.  ^  am  absolutely  afraid  you  \yill  lose  your 
senses,  and  I  cannot  see  you  suffering  as  you  do, 
without  thinking  of  some  beautiful  lines  of  a  great 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  109 

French  poet,  about  a  rose  fading  in  the  wilderness. 
Once  1  could  say  them  all  by  heart,  and  sing  them 
too,  but  I  have  lost  my  memory,  and  my  voice,  and 
every  thing  else,  since  I  have  been  obliged  to  breathe 
the  dull,  heavy  air  of  Boston.     Why,  your  father 
invites  nobody  to  visit  at  the  house,  but  a  parcel  of 
half-starved  Huguenots.     I  wonder  which  of  them 
he  proposes  shall  swallow  you  alive.    I  hope  I  shall 
not  live  to  see  the  day.     Your  mother  would  have 
looked  a  deal  higher  for  you.     She  was  the  right 
sort,  you  may  depend.     But  she  grew  melancholy 
after  coming  to  this  land  of  wild  beasts,  and  was  not 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self.     You  can  judge  a 
little  by  Beauchamp,  how  she  once  looked.   He  has 
not  the  air  of  these  yankee  bodies." 

"  Did  my  mother  resemble  Beauchamp  ?"  inquired 
Mary,  yawning,  and  desirous  to  turn  the  channel  of 
discourse  from  herself. 

"  Something  between  Monsieur  Beauchamp  and 
yourself,"  rephed  the  waiting-maid,  "  would  be  more 
as  she  was  in  the  height  of  her  beauty.  She  was 
like  Venus,  in  that  picture  in  your  uncle's  cham- 
ber,  where  Paris  (I  believe  it  was  he  who  built 
the  city  of  Paris,)  is  choosing  between  three  god- 
desses." , 

«  Why  did  not  my  father  have  her  portrait  taken  .' 

«  He  did,  several  years  before  your  birth.  I  always 

told  him  that  nobody  but  one  of  the  court  painters 

from  France  was  fit  to  do  it.     But  he  must  needs 

patronize  the  jackasses  of  this  country.  So  there  the 


:r?&.- 


110  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

poor  lady  sat  face  to  face  with  one  of  them,  to  please 
her  husband,  day  after  day,  till  she  was  ready  to 
faint  with  disgust.  But  when  it  was  done,  O  Lord  ! 
— the  thoughts  of  it  drive  me  mad.  It  was  so  bolt 
upright,  so  stiff,  staring,  and  with  such  an  abomina- 
bly silly  expression,  so  entirely  out  of  character, 
holding  in  one  hand  a  huge  bunch  of  pinks  and 
marigolds,  and  in  the  other,  a  book,  looking  vastly 
like  a  bible,  which  was  quite  as  much  out  of  charac- 
ter too,  for  she  had  too  much  good  sense  to  put  her 
eyes  out,  with  poring  over  dull,  godly  books. 

"  When  Beauchamp  saw  the  production,  he  told 
the  pcunter  to  take  it  with  him  to  the  devil ;  but  your 
father  thought  it  had  better  be  hung  up  a  while  for 
the  colors  to  mellow.  At  last  it  proved  rather  too 
bad  even  for  him,  though  he  did  not  say  much  about 
it.  One  day,  I  smelt  smoke,  and  an  awful  odour  of 
oil,  and  ran  into  the  dining-room,  screaming, — 
'  Lord,  Sir !  the  house  is  on  fire.'  What  do  you 
think  I  saw,  but  that  vile  picture,  split  all  to  pieces, 
and  laid  on  the  fire,  burning  with  a  terrible  flame, 
and  the  old  gentleman  thrusting  it  in  further  with  his 
cane,  never  speaking  a  word,  or  so  much  as  turning 
his  head  towards  me." 

"  How  old  was  my  mother,  when  she  left  her 
native  country  ?" 

*'  Just  your  own  age,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle, 
about  sixteen.  I  never  saw  any  mortal  being  so 
resplendent  as  she  was,  the  night  of  her  escape  from 
the  convent.     Down  she  came  by  a  ladder  of  ropes 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  Ill 

from  a  high  window,  that  would  make  your  poor 
weak  head  dizzy  to  look  up  at.     IMonsieur  Beau- 
champ  held  it  firm,  and  carried  her  in  his  arms  to 
the  carriage  which  waited  in  a  dark  thicket  at  the 
end  of  the  avenue.     There  was  I  in  it,  and  your 
father  standing  near,  and  the  two  postilions  drove 
like  lightning  till  we  readied  the  coast,  where  a  priest 
performed  the  ceremony,  and  we  all  embarked  with- 
out  a  moment's  delay.  When  she  was  first  brought 
to  the  coach,  she  v/as  as  white  as  your  robe,  but  as 
soon  as  she  found  herself  out  of  the  clutches  of  the 
nuns  and  their  tribe,  and  safe  with  me,  and  her 
lover,  and  her  brother,  she  dazzled  like  a  wreath  of 
rubies  and  diamonds.     If  she  had  not  shown  her 
Beauchamp  blood,  and  ran  away  just  at  that  time, 
she  would  have  been  moped  to  death  in  a  convent, 
just  as  you  are  likely  to  be  in  your  own  father's 

house." 

This  episode  touched  a  chord  that  vibrated  pain- 
fully,  for  Mary's  lover  at  their  last  interview  had 
urged  her  to  an  elopement,  and  though  she  had  re- 
jected the  proposal  with  spirit,  it  still  remained  as  a 
thorn  in  her  memory,  as  a  thing  to  which  she  ought 
never  to  have  listened. 

«  Dubelde,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  for  rest.  You  for- 
get  that  your  tongue  has  been  in  motion  without 
cessation,  these  two  hours." 

"  Two  hours  !— Oh  mon  Dieu  !— It  is  just  five 
minutes  by  my  watch,  since  I  came  up  from  order- 
inrr  Brido-et  about  the  ragout.  The  stupid  wretch !— 


1J2  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

I  dare  say  she'll  spoil  it.     Not  a  soup  have  I  seen 
in  this  countrv,  that  would  not  turn  the  stomach  of 
a  horse.  Why,  we  had  scarcely  been  here  a  month, 
when  I  sent  to  the  market  for  some  frogs,  thinking 
to  i-nake  a  pasty  myself,  to  tempt  your  mother's 
palate,  for  she  was  even  then  beginning  to  pine  away 
with  starvation.     Would  you  believe  it! — the  beast 
of  a  servant  never  returned  till  night,  and  then  came 
brin^nno-  a  huo-e  pot  of  vile,  fat  toads,  for  which  he 
said  the  market-man  must  have  six  livres,  having 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  hunting  them.    Your  poor 
mother  was  not  the  shadow  of  herself,  for  years 
before  vou  were  born.     And  you  are  in  the  same 
way,  I  perceive.     All  your  charming  naivete  quite 
gone.  You  cannot  even  bear  a  few  minutes'  discourse 
with  a  friend.     Ma  foi !— But  how  can  I  wonder, 
when  I  am  so  changed  myself?     My  nerves  have 
been  shattered  by  hearing  of  the  horrid  Indian  sav- 
ages of  this  country.     And  my  eyes, — it  does  not 
become  me,  to  be  sure,  to  tell  what  was  said  of  them 
in  France, — but  one  might  be  apt  to  think  that  time 
had  changed  them.    No  such  thing, — it's  more  sor- 
row, and  weeping  after  Paris.     More  than  once, 
when  I  have  been  walking  on  the  Louvre,  a  great 
Prince,  brother  to  Louis  the  king,  has  bowed  to  me. 
I  suppose  he  mistook  me  for  one  of  the  Duchesses. 
But  you  must  not  speak  of  that,  Mademoiselle.  Lord  ! 
1  dare  say  you  did  not  so  much  as  hear  me,  for  you 
are  dying  with  sleep." 

Mary  was  relieved  by  the  absence  of  her  waiting- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  113 

woman,  who,  like  many  other  persons  of  a  low  mind, 
thought  to  magnify  her  consequence  by  a  strain  of 
disco'itentment,  and  expatiating  on  the  superior  ad- 
vantages  of  a  former  situation.  Dr.  Ranchon  received 
immediate  information  from  her,  that  her  young 
mistress  was  in  a  fixed  consumption,  and  that  no- 
thing but  a  voyage  to  France  could  possibly  restore 
her.°  Credulous,  and  prone  to  agitation,  where  his 
daughter  was  concerned,  he  ransacked  his  library 
for  authors  who  had  written  upon  this  disease,  col- 
lected his  antiquated  manuscripts  lo  search  for  cases 
within  the  range  of  his  own  practice,  and  turned  the 
whole  current  of  his  thoughts  and  conversation  upon 
the  phthisis  pulmonalis. 

A  few  evenings  after  the  communication  of  this 
intelligence,  as  Dubelde  was  assisting  her  young 
lady  to  retire,  she  began  in  a  whimpering  tone  to 
upbraid  her  want  of  confidence. 

«  Madelaine,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  have^I  con- 
cealed which  was  proper  for  you  to  know?" 

"  Alas  !  every  thing,"  replied  the  querulous  dam- 
sel. "  Have  I  not  carried  you  in  these  arms  whole 
years,  and  accompanied  your  mother  in  her  flight 
across  the  tossing  ocean?  And  now  to  be  treated 
like  an  underling.  Ah,  mon  coeur  !  She  never 
would  have  done  so.  Why,  here  is  the  story  of 
your  love,  and  your  marriage  that  is  to  be,  all  over 
town,  and  I  never  to  be  told  a  breath  of  it." 

"All  over  town  !— Explain  yourself,"  said  Mary, 
lettino-  her  long  and  beautiful  hair  fall  uncurled  over 

K2 


]14  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

her  shoulders,  and  seating  herself  in  deep  surprise 
on  the  side  of  the  bed,  her  night-robe  flowing  in  loose 
and  graceful  drapery  around  her. 

"  O,  that  air  of  astonishment  is  vastly  becoming," 
replied  Dubelde ;  "  only  it  brings  rather  too  fine  a 
color  over  the  brow,  for  a  lady  already  so  far  gone 
m  a  hectic.  There  was  I,  and  your  poor  father, 
fretting  ourselves  to  death  about  asses'  milk,  and 
how  to  make  you  put  on  flannel,  and  he  was  dis- 
tracted to  have  a  monstrous  blister  laid  upon  your 
breast,  though  I  told  him  he  might  as  well  undertake 
to  persuade  you  to  have  your  head  cut  off*.  But  after 
all,  it  seems  that  you  are  likely  to  let  the  doctors 
alone,  and  die  a  natural  death  at  last,  since  all  this 
alarm  is  only  an  affair  of  the  heart,  as  Monsieur 
Beauchamp  says." 

"  My  uncle  ! — What  does  he  know  of  this  strange 
story  of  yours  V  inquired  Mary  with  evident  alarm. 

"  Nothino-  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Dubelde, 
"  and  he  never  would  have  heard  it  from  me,  had 
you  but  seen  fit  to  honor  me  with  your  secret.  I 
have  had  grander  love-matters  than  yours,  brought 
me  for  advice,  I  assure  you,  young  lady.  I  have  had 
experience  enough  too,  in  such  sort  of  things  myself, 
(forcing  a  sigh) — to  be  a  counsellor.  But  courting 
is  nothing  in  this  country  to  what  it  is  in  France." 

"  How  did  you  obtain  the  information  of  which  you 
speak  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  How  did  I  obtain  it? — Oh,  to  be  sure  ! — What 
if  I  should  take  it  into  my  head  to  be  as  close-mouth- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  115 

ed  as  other  people  ?  Why,  if  I  must  tell,  I  obtained 
It  in  the  streets,  where  it  is  in  every  body's  mouth 
for  aught  I  know.  I  saw  the  man  with  my  own 
eyes,  Madam.  He  is  a  perfect  Adonis.  I  had  never 
expected  to  see  such  grace  and  symmetry  in  this 
land  of  savages.  He  is  the  very  picture  of  the  prince 
who  bowed  to  me  on  the  Louvre,  only  he  is  rather 
more  em-bon-point,  and  his  shoulders  a  trifle  broader. 
But  such  life  and  spirit,  ma  foi ! — and  such  a  fine 
dress, — a  perfect  courtier  too,  in  speech  and  voice." 
"  Speech  and  voice  ! — Of  whom  are  you  under- 
taking  to  prate  ?" 

"  Why,  of  Captain  Patten.    Who  did  your  lady- 
ship suppose?     I  should  not  have  mentioned  his 
voice,  to  be  sure ;  I  only  meant  to  have  said,  what  it 
would  be  if  he  had  spoken,  for  high-bred  gentlemen 
always  abound  in  fine  words.  I  had  been  walking  up 
Winter-street,  for  a  little  airing,  as  you  know  I  have 
been  moped  to  death  in  your  chamber  for  more  than 
this  whole  week,  and  I  saw  him  coming  down  the 
mall.  I  could  do  no  less  than  just  stop  to  admire  him, 
for  I  thought  he  must  be  some  foreign  prince.   Who 
is  that  ?  says  I.  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  says  they.  It 
is  Captain  Patten,  Miss  Mary  Ranchon's  admirer 
You  doii't  say  so  ?  says  I.    Oh,  the  wedding-dresses 
are  all  made,  says  they,  and  she  is  going  to  settle 
on  him  the  whole  of  her  mother's  fortune,  because 
that  is  at  her  disposal.     See,  he  wants  to  speak  to 
you,  says  they." 

"Says  who?"   interrupted  the  young  lady,   in. 

dignantly. 


116  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"  Why,  they  that  was  with  me,  to  be  sure.  Peo- 
ple need  not  be  so  mighty  inquisitive  unless  they 
(iould  contrive  to  show  a  little  more  frankness  them- 
selves. Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  stopped  one  mo- 
ment, and  he  came  directly  up.  Such  a  how  I  have 
not  seen,  since  I  turned  my  back  on  dear  Paris. 
'  Mademoiselle  Madelaine  Dubelde,  I  presume,'  said 
he  Lord  !  how  should  he  know  my  name.  I  was 
abashed  at  such  politeness,  and  felt  my  cheeks  red- 
der than  a  piony.  '  You  are,  I  understand,'  he  went 
on,  '  a  particular  friend  of  that  paragon  of  beauty 
and  loveliness,  who  holds  mv  heart  as  the  fowler 
holds  the  pierced  bird.  Commend  me  most  favor- 
ably to  her  clemency,  and  say'  " 

"  Dubelde,"  rejoined  Mary,  with  all  her  father's 
sternness,  which  she  v/ell  knew  how  to  assume, — 
*'  either  speak  the  truth,  or  leave  my  presence.'"' 

The  narrator,  regarding  her  eye  for  a  moment, 
and  perceiving  that  her  tissue  had  been  woven  with 
too  little  art,  and  that  falsehood  could  not  elude  the 
quick  penetration  of  her  mistress,  laid  aside  the  flip- 
pancy which  had  hitherto  marked  her  recital,  and 
thus  proceeded, — 

"  Since  a  slisrht  embellishment  so  much  offends 
your  delicate  nerves,  I  will  give  you  the  plain  fact.  I 
was  accosted,  as  I  came  from  the  market,  by  a  fine- 
looking  man,  who,  after  mentioning  his  name,  and 
inquiring  earnestly  after  your  health,  begged  me  to 
deliver  you  this  letter,  and  suddenly  vanished  among 
the  crowd." 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  117 

"  I  shall  not  take  the  letter." 
«  As  you  please,  Madam.     I  shall  just  la)^  it  on 
your  dressing-table.     It  will  do  no  harm  there,  I 
trust.    It  is  a  mere  complimentary  note,  I  dare  say, 
and  sealed  just  like  the  court  billetdoux." 

Mary  desired  to  be  left  alone,  and  throwing  her- 
self upon  her  couch,  ruminated  painfully.    She  was 
confounded  at  the  rashness  of  Patten,  in  thus  reveal- 
ing  himself  to  Dubelde,  and  felt  there  was  great 
ha°zard  in  trusting  one  so  naturally  indiscreet,  and 
whose  confidence  she  had  taken  no  care  to  propitiate. 
Again  she  recalled  the  circumstances  of  her  last 
interview  with  her  lover,  and  blamed  herself  as  the 
cause  of  his  precipitation,  by  the  anger  which  she 
had  testified  at  his  solicitation  to  elopement,  and  by 
her  subsequent  seclusion  from  him.    Sometimes  she 
condemned  herself  for  evincing  too  much  spirit ;  then 
for  not  assuming  enough  to  reject  him  utterly. 

Still  she  was  determined  not  to  read  his  letter. 
What  could  he  possibly  say  in  it,  more  than  he  had 
said]  A  tumult  of  thought  banished  sleep  until 
midnight.  She  rose  to  extinguish  the  lamp  which 
beamed  too  strongly  upon  her  eyes.  The  letter  lay 
near  it  upon  her  toilette.  It  was  sealed  with  a  head 
of  Venus.  The  writing  was  elegant.  What  harm 
could  arise  from  just  looking  at  its  contents  ?  Would 
it  not  be  wiser  to  read  it,  and  then  inclose  it  in  a 
note,  commanding  him  to  forget  her?  Perchance, 
thus  reasoned  our  mother,  when  beneath  the  fatal 
tree  in  Paradise,    "she   plucked,  she  ate."     The 


118  THE    FAMILY    PORTilAITS. 

maiden  trimmed  lier  decaying  lamp.  Twice  she 
took  the  letter,  and  twice  restored  it  to  its  place,  ere 
slie  M'oke  the  seal.  She  perused  it,  and  it  fell  to  the 
flooi  Reclining  her  head  upon  her  hand,  while  her 
luxuriant  tresses  fell  around  her  like  a  veil,  she  con- 
templated its  pages  with  an  air  of  vacancy,  and  with 
scarcely  a  connected  thought,  until  advancing  dawn 
admonished  her  to  retire.  She  rested  her  throbbmsc 
temples  upon  the  pillow,  but  no  slumber  visited  her. 
The  bitterness  of  self-reproach,  and  the  collision  of 
love  with  duty,  rendered  her  an  object  of  commiser- 
ation. The  letter  contained  ardent  protestations  of 
attachment, — deprecated  the  misery  which  the  ru- 
mor of  her  ill-health  had  caused  him, — conjured  her 
to  suffer  him  to  remove  the  veil  which  had  so  Ions 
concealed  his  faithful  love,  and  ventured  to  urse  that 
if  her  father  should  prove  inexorable  to  his  prayers, 
she  would  not  shrink  from  a  step  which  many  of  the 
most  excellent  of  her  sex  had  taken,  nor  condemn 
to  eternal  despair,  a  heart  devoted  to  but  one  object 
with  unalterable  fidelity.  Nothing  was  written 
which  had  not  been  previously  adduced,  but  the  ar- 
guments seemed  to  gather  strength  by  condensation. 
An  eye  accustomed  to  the  vernacular  of  love-epistles 
would  have  discovered  in  this,  more  of  studied  ar- 
rangement than  of  artless  passion,  with  somewhat 
of  that  style  which  betrays  expectation  of  success 
But  to  a  novice,  with  an  advocate  in  her  own  bosom, 
the  appeal,  if  not  irresistible,  was  at  least  dangerous 
It  rendered  the  writer  an  object  of  more  undivided 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  119 

contemplation,  and  th^  lover  who  succeeds  in  mono- 
polizmg  the  thoughts  of  an  inuncent  heart,  is  like 
the  conqueror  who  cuts  off  the  channels  of  supply 
from  a  besieged  citadel.  Madelaine  found  her  young 
lady  in  the  morning,  changed  both  in  appearance 
and  manner,  and  with  rapture  listened  to  the  request 
not  to  divulge  her  secret. 

"Never  fear  me,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle,"  she 
answered :  "  it  is  safe  as  in  your  double-locked  cas- 
ket.    Now  you  will  be  well  again, — at  least  I  must 
tell  my  master  so,  for  he  is  in  such  a  panic,  that  he 
will  be  sure  to  lay  on  a  blister  as  big  as  a  Parmesan 
cheese  before  night.  But,  Lord  !  how  shockingly  pale 
you  look  !     Just  touch  a  little  of  my  rouge  to  your 
beautiful  cheeks.    Mon  Dieu  !  how  awfully  obstinate 
you  are  !  It  won't  hurt  your  complexion, — you  may 
tell  that  by  mine.     It  only  keeps  one  from  looking 
like  a  downright  fright.    The  finest  complexions  on 
earth  would  be  utterly  ruined,  by  the  vile  easterly 
winds  that  are  for  ever  blowing  here.    I  protest  that 
even  mine  is  hardly  fit  to  be  seen  now,  though  it 
was  so  much  admired  in  France.     But,  my  lovely 
creature,  I  am  delighted  that  you  have  read  that 
charming  letter ;"  bending  towards  it  with  intense 

curiosity. 

Mary,  blushing  at  her  faithlessness  to  her  own 
resolutions,  snatched  it  from  the  carpet,  and  press- 
mg  it  together,  hid  it  in  her  bosom.  This  was  the 
most  wretched  day  that  she  had  ever  passed.  Com- 
pelled to  counterfeit  cheerfulness  during  the  visits  of 


120  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

her  father,  in  order  to  countenance  the  report  of  her 
recovery,  she  reproached  herself  for  duplicity,  until 
she  loathed  her  very  being.  When  she  observed 
his  eyes  resting  upon  her  with  affectionate  solicitude, 
she  wished  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  acknow- 
ledge that  she  was  unworthy  to  be  called  his  child. 
Dreading  the  scrutiny  of  Beauchamp's  glance,  she 
excused  herself  from  his  proffered  visit,  with  the 
promise  of  appearing  below  on  the  ensuing  day. 
The  attentions  of  the  waiting-maid  were  indefatiga- 
ble, and  her  exultation  as  extreme,  as  if  she  had 
again  been  promenading  the  Louvre,  and  receivino- 
a  bow  from  some  imagined  Prince.  Her  extravagant 
praises  of  Patten  would  have  excited  suspicion  that 
she  was  bribed  to  his  interest,  had  the  mind  of  her 
mistress  been  suiHciently  at  case  for  clear  investiga- 
tion. So  much  had  poor  Mary  sunk  in  her  own 
opinion,  that  not  only  was  the  impertinence  of  the 
menial  tolerated,  but  even  her  suggestions  accom 
panied  with  some  degree  of  influence. 

"Why,  an  elopement  is  no  such  terrible  thing,  my 
adored  lady.  Your  mother  did  it  before  you,  and 
yourfather,  of  all  men,  would  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain. A  few  words  before  the  priest,  a  short  jour- 
ney, return  home,  with  a  shower  of  tears,  would 
appease  the  old  gentleman,  and  then  all  set  ofl'  toge- 
ther somewhere, — to  France,  I  hope, — Ah  !  how  de- 
lightful. But  suppose.  Mademoiselle,  you  dismiss  this 
elegant  lover,  as  your  heart  does  not  seem  very  sus- 
ceptible, and  so  marry  one  of  these  starveling  Hu- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  121 

guenots.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  one  of  that  q\ieer 
sort  of  bodies.     Well,  there 's   no   accounting  for 
tastes,  and  every  one  has  a  right  to  choose  their  own 
den,  as  the  bears  say,  in  the  fable.     You  '11  be  set  to 
work  like  an  ox,  and  what  good  will  your  guitar  or 
your  piano  do  ye,  where  no  music  but  the  whirling 
of  a  spinning-wheel  is  desired  or  understood  1    You 
can  do  it,  I  suppose,  if  you  prefer  it,  and  so  have 
nothing  fit  to  eat,  or  decent  to  wear,  and  pine  away 
and  die,  like  your  poor  dear  mother.     But  if  you 
can't  quite  bring  your  stomach  to  that,  what 's  to  be 
got  by  waiting  l     How  long  will  it  be,  before  Beau- 
champ  will  hear  this  news  in  the  streets  ?  And  how 
long,  think  ye,  will  he  keep  it  from  your  father?  O, 
mon  Dieu  !  what  a  terrible  storm  will  be  then.  Much 
worse,  than  if  you  had  eloped  and  got  back  again, 
for  then  he  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  what 
could  not  he  helped,  and  there  would  be  only  a  show 
of  anger  with  a  yearning  heart  underneath,  and  so 
delighted  would  he  be  to  see  you,  that  he  would  soon 
drop  his  frowning  mask,  and  in  one  month's  time, 
I  promise  you,  would  be  proud  of  such  a  son-in- 

law." 

Mary  did  not  admit  the  force  of  these  arguments, 
but  she  evidently  listened  to  them,  and  on ^  such  a 
point,  "  the  woman  who  deliberates  is  lost."  That 
night,  as  she  was  about  to  retire,  exhausted  for  want 
of^repose,  but  with  little  expectation  of  enjoying  it, 
she  was  startled  at  the  sound  of  a  violincello,  direct, 
ly  under  her  window. 


122  THE    FAMILY    POP.TRAlTs. 

Alarmed  lest  the  proximity  of  her  uncle's  cham- 
ber should  occasion  her  some  embarrassing  ques- 
tions respecting  the  serenade,  she  bent  from  the 
window,  and  seeing  the  form  of  Patten  indistmctly 
by  the  light  of  the  moon,  motioned  with  her  hand 
peremptorily  for  him  to  retire.  Still  the  strain  con- 
tinued its  impassioned  melody.  Bending  lower  from 
the  casement,  she  said  in  a  tone  scarcely  audible, — 

"  Go  ! — I  command  you." 

He  obeyed, — but  again  from  a  great  distance,  she 
cauo-ht  the  echo  of  a  different  lav,  which  was  a  fa- 
vorite  among  her  companions.  Almost  the  words  of 
its  chorus  seemed  to  be  articulated,  so  perfect  was 
the  modulation : — 

"  I  go,  proud  heart  I — Remember  mc, — 
Remember  him,  who  dies  for  thee." 

This  occurrence  effectually  prevented  her  slum- 
bers for  another  night,  and  she  rose  with  disordered 
nerves,  and  a  tremulous  anxiety  of  spirit.  Hearing 
that  she  was  expected  in  the  breakfast  parlor,  she 
hastily  arranged  her  dress,  and  required  repeated 
assurances  from  Dubelde,  that  Beauchamp  could 
possibly  know  nothing  of  her  secret,  ere  she  ven- 
tured into  his  presence.  He  met  her  at  the  staircase, 
and  takinsr  her  hand,  led  her  into  the  breakfast-room, 
but  forbore  any  except  general  inquiries  about  her 
health,  and  regarded  her  with  so  little  scrutiny,  that 
she  felt  at  ease,  and  resumed  something  of  her  native 
hilarity.  Dr.  Ranchon  was  so  delighted  at  her  re- 
appearance, that  he  could  scarcely  take  his  repast, 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  123 

for  the  number  of  greetings  that  he  had  to  be^stow, 
mincrled  with  occasional  commendations  of  his  own 
medical  acumen,  and  precise  knowledge  of  her  con- 
stitution.    After  breakfast,  at  taking  his  cane  for  his 
morning  walk,  he  recommended  her  to  retire  to  her 
room,  and  compose  herself  after  this  first  exertion 
of  strength,  and  to  take  a  wine-glass  of  the  decoction 
of  valeHan,    with  a  little  hartshorn  to  temper  the 
effect  of  the  sedative.  At  his  departure,  Beauchamp 
drew  her  into  the  recess  of  a  window,  under  pretence 
of  showing  her  a  new  volume  of  colored  prints.  He 
amused  himself  for  some  time  in  pointing  out  the 
elegant  execution  of  the  landscapes,  and  the  life  and 
pro°minence  which  characterized  the  figures.    \Vhile 
she  was  admiring  the  plumage  of  a  bird,  which  she 
did  not  perceive  was  the  Hibernian  thrush,  he  cover- 
ed with  her  hand,  all  the  letters  of  the  name  except 
Hibernia,  and  said  with  marked  expression,—"  As 
you  are  doubtless  better  acquainted  with  the  ornitho- 
logy of  that  island,  than  your  uncle,  can  you  tell  him 
whether  this  is  one  of  the  songsters  which  warble  in 

the  night  1" 

Then  casting  at  her  an  oblique  glance  from  be- 
neath his  long  eye-lashes,  v/hile  his  fine  eyes  seem- 
ed to  say,  that  her  soul  was   open  before  him,   he 

added, — 

"AZZ  birds  understand  not  the  word  of  command 
trom  a  fine  lady,  nor  is  the  same  o?ie  equally  obe- 
dient at  all  times,  ma  belle  Marie." 

Compassionating  the  extreme  conti.ision  with  which 


it- 


124  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

she  was  covered,  he  drew  her  to  a  seat  by  his  side, 
and  attempted  to  turn  her  attention  to  other  designs 
of  the  artist.  But  complaining  of  an  head-ache, 
which  she  really  had,  she  disengaged  herself,  and 
hastened  to  her  chamber.  Rushing  by  Dubelde,  she 
covered  her  face  with  lier  hands,  exclaimino; — 

"  He  knows  it ! — he  knows  all ! — Beauchamp  has 
discovered  all !— I  wish  that  I  were  hidden  in  the 
earth." 

"  Ma  foi !"  shrieked  the  chamber-maid,  "  and  if 
that  is  indeed  the  case,  you  have  no  time  to  lose. 
This  night  must  you  be  on  your  way,  or  Patten  is 
lost  for  ever." 

"  This  night !"  said  the  infatuated  girl,  "  seems  to 
be  the  only  time,  for  I  heard  Beauchamp  say  that 
he  was  to  go  to  Milton-hill,  on  a  party  of  plea- 
sure, and  not  return  until  to-morrow.  So  that  it 
would  not  be  in  his  power  to  discover  any  movement 
here,  and  probably  he  will  have  no  opportunity  to 
inform  my  father  before  he  goes.  Oh  !  I  would  suf- 
fer anything  rather  than  encounter  such  another 
harrowing,  humiliating  glance.  That  miserable 
serenade  has  been  the  cause  of  all  this."  " 

Madelaine  exclaiming  with  delight, — "  Now  you 
are  yourself  again, — your  mother's  child," — hasten- 
ed to  make  necessary  arrangements,  acknowledo-in"- 
that  she  had  already  held  three  assignations  with 
Patten  on  this  subject.  Mary  permitted  her  to  depart, 
continually  repeating  to  herself, — 

'•'  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  be  more  wretched 


THE    FAMILY     PORTRAITS.  125 

than  I  now  am,"  not  knowing  that  there  is  no  wretch- 
edness  like  that  which  a  woman  suffers,  who  has 
aiven  her  affections  where  they  can  never  be  return- 
ed,— trusted  her  earthly  all  to  one  frail  bark,  and 
found  the  wreck  total. 

Most  persons  will  condemn  our  herome,  for  lis- 
tening to  the  opinions,  and  employing  the  interven- 
tion  ol*  so  contemptible  a  woman  as  Dubelde.  Let  such 
critics  themselves  beware  of  the  first  step  in  a  wrong 
course  ;  for  who  can  tell  where  the  last  may  lead  I 
Most  of  us,  when  disposed  to  candor,   can  recollect 
passacres  in  our  own  history,  where  the  commenca- 
tions  of  one  whose  judgment  we  might  habitually 
despise,  if  it  happens  to  fall  in  with  the  current  of 
our  partialities,  has  had  some  agency  in  determmmg 
a  doubtful  and  important  choice.     Dubelde  was  ab- 
sent  at  intervals  during  most  of  the  day.     Toward 
its  close,  she  brought  a  letter  from  Patten,  expressive 
of  the  m.ost  extravagant  gratitude. 

"  Every  arrangement  is  made,"  said  she.     "  All 
that  you  have  to^  do,  is  precisely  when  the  clock 
strikes  twelve,  to  come  down,  looking  like  a  goddess 
as  you  do  now,  all  arrayed  for  a  ride  in  this  fine 
moonUo-ht.  Your  lover  m.eets  you  at  the  door  of  the 
little  summer-parlor,  opening  into  the  garden,  leads 
you  through  that  into  the  next  avenue,  where  a  post- 
chaise  waits,  and  a  servant  on  horseback.  Then  you 
drive  to  Providence,  get  the  ceremony  performed, 
pnd  take   an  excursion  just   where   your  ladyship 
pleases,  until  you  are  ready  to  come   back   and  be 
^'  L2 


126  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

pardoned.  Oh  !  how  interesting  you  '11  look  on  your 
knees,  with  the  old  gentleman  a  little  stern  at  first, 
because  he'll  feel  obliged  to  be  so,  though  he'll  be 
panting,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  to  cry  welcome. 
Lord  !  how  much  better  is  this,  than  one  of  the  dull 
weddings  of  this  miserable  country  !     Why,  a  fune- 
ral is  nothing  to  them  for  sadness.     There  sit  the 
bride  and  bridegroom,  as  starched  and  stiff  as  buck- 
ram, and  a  parcel  of  friends  who  came  only  to  stare 
at  them,  and  eat  vile  cake,  and  drink  muddy  wine, 
till  they  are  all  as  dull  as  asses.     The  parson  too 
pipes  up  such  a  doleful  exhortation  about  honoring 
and  obeying,  and  then  the  old  women  snuffle  and 
cry,  because  they  hiow  what  it  means^  and  the  young 
ones  hide  their  faces  behind  their  fans,  because  they 
wish  to  laiow.  Then  they  all  creep  in  mournful  pro- 
cession, two  and  two,  to  congratulate  the  bride,  with 
such  woe-begone  faces,  that  she  dreams  of  them  in 
her  sleep,  and  screams  out  with  the  night-mare. 
Mon  Dieu  !  T  could  not  survive,  through  such  a  stu- 
pid scene.     How  much  better  to  have  a  little  life, 
and  motion,  and  spirit,  and  joy  !     And  then  to  lay 
your  lover  under  such  an  obligation,  when,  in  one  of 
these  petrified  marriages,  ten  to  one  but  he  'II  think 
that  he  conferred  one  on  you.     But  I  'm  distracted 
to  run  on  so,  when  I  've  all  your  wardrobe  to  put  up 
for  your  journey.    Let  me  see  :  your  crimson  satin, 
and  your  blue  neglige,  you  '11  take  by  all  means,  and 
you  'II  need  the*  pearl  lutestring  for  a  morning  dress, 
with  shoes,  and  ear-rings,  and  ruffles,  and  so  forth, 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  127 

to  match.  Will  you  take  your  best  brocade  ?  Lord ! 
who  knows  but  you  'II  be  robbed  by  the  Indians. 
Here 's  the  beautiful  new  brown  tabby,  that  suits 
your  shape  so  exactly.     You  'il  ride  in  this,  I  trust, 

with  the  Brussels  lace  tucker" 

«  For  heaven's  sake,"  exclaimed  Mary,  "  say  no- 
thing about  clothes.  I  '11  go  in  the  plainest  dress  I 
have,  and  take  one  or  two  changes." 

"  Ma  foi !"  shrieked  Madelaine,  "  you  've  lost  your 
senses.  But  so  does  every  body,  who  's  in  love.  1 
shall  make  bold  to  use  my  own  judgment,  and  select 
such  things  as  are  decent  to  wear.  No  good  would 
come  from  looking  like  a  beggar,  and  disgracing  your 
lover  at  the  very  outset." 

"  Prevent  my  father  from  coming  to  my  room, 
this  evening,"  said  Mary.  "J  cannot  endure  to  look 
at  him.  Sm-ely,  surely,  I  am  on  a  wrong  course,  or 

it  would  not  be  so." 

"  Now  you  're  getting  into  the  dumps  again,"  re- 
plied Dabelde.     "  Here,  take  your  smelling-bottle,  I 
pray.  Better  do  a  thing  gracefully,  or  not  do  it  at  all. 
The  old  gentleman  is  safe  enough.     He 's  got  some 
of  the  Huguenot  bodies  to  une  petite  soupir  with  him, 
and  they  're  telling  old  world  stories  with  such  eclat, 
that  they  won't  know  what  world  they  're  in,  till  the 
dining-room  clock  strikes  nine.  Then  they  '11  be  off 
like  the  firing  of  a  pistol,for  they 're  so  superstitious 
they  durst  not  be  out  in  the  night.   And  your  father 
is  always  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to  bed,  and  Beau- 
champ  is  out :  what  better  could  you  possibly  desire  ? 


128  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Come,  be  gay  :  you  '11  affright  Patten  with  that  pale, 
ghostly  visage." 

Thus  rattled  on  the  interminable  waitins-maid 
and  Mary,  whose  object  was  to  banish  thought,  felt 
even  her  impertinence  preferable  to  silence.  Pride, 
and  a  sense  of  decorum,  would  but  a  few  days  since 
have  strongly  revolted  against  submitting  to  the  gui- 
dance of  a  menial ;  now  the  haughty  spirit  was  pas- 
sive both  to  arrangements  and  to  opinions  which  it 
despised.  "  Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length," 
the  unhappy  victim  prolonged  every  hindrance  that 
detained  her  on  shore.  The  last  hour  of  probation 
seemed  as  a  few  minutes,  yet  was  almost  insupport- 
able. She  wished  to  fly  from  herself,  to  plunge  in 
the  waters  of  Lethe, — to  obliterate  all  the  past, — to 
forget  even  her  own  name  and  existence.  There 
was  a  settled  misery  in  her  countenance,  which  might 
have  awakened  the  obdurate  to  pity. 

Thrice  Madelaine  repeated, "  The  clock  has  struck 
twelve,"  ere  she  heeded  it. 

*'  You  mistake,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  scarcely  past 
eleven."  Fain  would  she  have  added, — "  Ah !  1 
cannot  go," — but  shame  at  exposing  such  indecision 
to  a  servant,  sealed  her  lips.  At  length  she  in- 
quired,— 

"  Does  my  father  sleep  ?" 

"  Lord  bless  me,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle,  are  you 
deaf,  that  you  have  not  heard  him  snoring  these  three 
hours,  as  steady  as  the  fall  of  a  mill-dam,  and  loud 
as  the  screech  of  a  trumpet  ?" 


THE     FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  1£9 

"  And  the  servants  ?" 

'•  All  in  their  lofts,  like  swallows.  I  gave  them 
a  swig  of  double-distilled,  and  I  dare  say,  there  '11  be 
no  such  thing  as  getting  them  up  in  the  morning." 

"And  Beauchamp?" 

"  Mn  foi ! — Have  you  forgot  he  does  not  return  to 
nicrht  1  This  is  vour  only  time.  Do  vou  wish  to  wait 
for  his  arrival,  and  so  have  your  lover  shot  through 
the  heart,  and  be  pointed  at,  and  laughed  at,  all  your 
davs  ?     Oh  !  I  know  vou  're  not  one  of  the  sort,  to 
enlist  and  run  away,  at  the  first  skirmish.     Collect 
your  spirits,  my  princess.    You  are  beautiful  as  the 
moon,  when  she  peeps  from  some  silver  cloud.  You 
have  the  very  soul  of  the  Beauchamps.     You  are 
equal  to  what  the  poor  spiritless  creatures  of  this  coun- 
try would  be  frightened  to  think  of,  but  what  is  as 
common  in  France  as  a  jewel  in  the  head  of  a  Duch- 
ess.     Remember   your  mother  did  it   before  you, 
when  she  was  just  about  your  age.     Think  of  the 
delight  and  rapture  of  your  lover.     Do  you  know 
it  is  believed  that  he  is  some   foreign  prince  in  dis- 
guise? and  no  more  a  Captain  than  I  ami  I've  no 
doubt  of  it.     I  see  a  throne  in  his  eye.  Who  knows 
but  you  '11  yet  hold  the  sceptre  of  Great  Britain  in 
that  lily  hand." 

Unconscious  of  a  word  that  was  uttered,  iVIary 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  down  the  staircase,  while 
Dubelde,  amid  all  her  fidgeting,  and  pride  of  direc- 
tion, and  fears  lest  they  should  not  tread  lightly, 
could  not  avoid  exclaimino;  with  her  native  volatility, 


ISO  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"  Lord !  I  'm  dead  with  the  nose-itch."  As  they 
reached  the  landing-place,  they  heard  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the  garden.  It  was 
the  black  servant,  come  to  see  if  all  was  ready,  and 
to  convey  the  package  to  the  carriage,  which  waited 
at  the  avenae  passing  the  foot  of  the  garden.  He 
was  admitted,  and  Madelaine  ran  hastily  to  the  cham- 
ber of  her  mistress,  for  the  clothes  which  had  been 
preparedo  At  her  return,  she  saw  him  setting  down 
a  champaign  glass,  which,  having  stood  near  a  bot- 
tle upon  a  table  in  the  recess,  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  filling,  and  decanting  through  his  lips. 
The  moment  she  observed  him,  foro-ettincp  her  own 
reiterated  injunctions  of  breathless  silence,  she 
shrieked — 

*'  Mon  Dieu  !  The  black  whale  has  swallowed  all 
my  rings  ! — the  ruby, — the  beautiful  emerald, — and 
the  turquoise  that  was  given  by, — Oh,  Lord  ! — and 
the  supei  b  hair-locket  too !  Did'nt  that  stick  in 
your  throat,  you  insatiable  hawk  V 

The  bereaved  waiting-woman  had  thrown  her 
jewelry,  en  passant,  into  this  casual  place  of  depo- 
sit, that  her  hands  might  be  more  at  liberty  in  pack- 
ing for  her  mistress ;  for,  since  the  access  of  years 
had  rendered  them  somewhat  more  lean  and  skinny, 
the  ornaments  of  her  buxom  vouth  were  in  contin- 
ual  danger  of  escaping  from  her  attenuated  fingers, 
when  summoned  to  any  active  duty.  Her  distress 
at  the  rifling  of  her  most  beloved  treasures,  quite 
annihilated  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  and  her 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  131 

first  shnek  was  passionately  loud.  But  she  had 
scarce  a  moment  to  compute  the  probabilities  of  the 
extent  of  its  echo,  ere  the  door  from  the  dining-room 
burst  open,  and  Dr.  Ranchon  appeared  in  his  night- 
dress, advancing  a  long,  rusty  rapier.  Suddenly 
awakened,  and  anticipating  no  enemy  but  thieves, 
he  armed  himself  with  great  dispatch,  and  stood 
forth,  a  formidable  antagonist,  with  great  personal 
strength,  and  equal  courage.  Great  was  his  aston- 
ishment to  find  his  daughter  arrayed  as  for  an  ex- 
pedition, and  fainting  in  the  arms  of  Madelaine.  The 
negro,  profiting  by  the  moment  of  consternation, 
dropped  the  package  and  vanished. 

*'  What !  in  God's  name,  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this  r'^-exclaimed  the  hoarse,  harsh  voice  of  the  old 
gentleman,  raised  to  its  upper  tones. 

"  Oh  !  take  her  in  your  arms, — support  her,  my 
dear  master,  till  I  run  for  some  hartshorn,  or  she  'II 
die,"  screamed  the  waiting-maid,  anxious  to  turn  his 
attention  to  an  object  that  would  disarm  his  rage, 
and  still  more  anxious  to  convey  her  own  person  out 
of  reach  of  the  rapier.  She  soon  saw  him  engaged 
in  loosing  the  ligatures  of  his  daughter's  dress,  and 
too  much  occupied  with  her  situation,  to  inquire  the 
cause.  Carefully  measuring  her  distance,  so  as  to 
be  out  of  the  range  of  the  weapon,  she  commenced 
a  plea  of  defence,  forgetful  of  the  impatience  which, 
a  moment  before,  she  had  testified,  to  obtain  some 
remedy  for  her  fainting  lady, — 

"  Oh !  that  I  had  never  seen  this  night,"  she  cried 


132  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

sobbing.  Thousands  of  times  have  I  tried  to  dis- 
<;uade  her  from  leaving  her  poor,  dear  father.  Hours 
without  number,  have  I  set  before  her  the  deadly 
sin  of  an  elopement." 

"Who  told  you  'twas  such  a  deadly  sin,  you 
meddling  Jezebel?"  vociferated  the  father. 

Dubelde  perceiving  that  in  her  haste  she  had  touch- 
ed a  key  to  which  her  master's  feelings  always  an- 
grily vibrated,  cried  in  a  whining  tone, — 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  Sir  ! — not  to  elope  with  a  pro- 
per person,  Sir,  such  as  an  honorable  gentleman 
from  France ;  that  would  have  been  a  glory  to  her, 
as  it  was  to  her  mother.  But  to  run  away  with  an 
Irishman  that  nobody  knows,  that  was  the  tiouble. 
She  was  set  enough  in  her  way,  God  knows.  She 
takes  it  from  the  Beau  champs.  She  was  angry 
enough  to  have  struck  me,  for  saying  so  much  in 
your  favor,  Sir." 

"  So,  you  knew  that  my  daughter  was  about  mar- 
rying an  Irish  devil,  and  never  told  me  of  it,  you 
infernal  deceiver  !     Get  out  of  my  house  !" — rising 
with  his  unconscious  burden,  as  if  to  force  her  from 
the  door.    But  reminded  of  Mary's  situation,  by  the 
lifeless  weight  with  which  she  hung  upon  his  arm, 
he  changed  his  purpose,  and  exclaimed, — 
"  Run  ! — fetch  the  hartshorn." 
"  Mademoiselle  has  some  drops  in  her  dressing- 
case,  your  honor,  which  always  do  better  for  her 
than  hartshorn.     I  '11  bring  them  in  one  moment." 

She   disappeared   on  the  staircase,  muttering  to 
herself, — 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  133 

"  I  shan't  break  my  neck  with  haste  to  accommo- 
date him.  Get  out  of  his  house ! — Indeed  ! — A  vile 
wolf!  This  is  what  people  of  my  talents  get,  by 
demeaning  themselves  to  such  vipers !" 

She  lino;ered  as  Ions;  as  was  convenient  to  herself, 
but  came  down  stairs  with  rapidity,  saying — 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  have  found  the  phial. 
Things  are  hid  in  such  strange  places  now-a-days." 

But  ere  she  arrived,  she  heard  the  old  gentleman 
speaking  in  a  hurried  but  gentle  tone  to  Mary,  who 
was  slowly  recovering  from  the  air  of  the  open 
door. 

"There !  there  !  look  up  again !  breathe  better  now, 
baby  ? — don't  swoon  again,  as  soon  as  you  see  me. 
A'nt  angry — No,  no — shall  marry  who  you  please 
— did'nt  mean  you  should  marry  a  Frenchman 
against  your  will. — No,  no. — May  have  whoever 
you  wish,  only  let  father  know  it. — That 's  all. — A'nt 
angry  the  least  in  the  world, — do  speak  one  word, 
baby  xMary." 

This  colloquy,  or  rather  soliloquy,  was  terminated 
by  Beauchamp,  who  rushed  in  at  the  garden-door, 
and  as  Mary  feebly  retired  with  Dubelde,  still  in  a 
state  of  doubtful  consciousness,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Clumsily  executed,  by  the  gods  !  This  same 
elopement  is  a  true  Irishman's  bull.  A  carriage  in 
full  view,  beneath  a  full  moon,  scarcely  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  house, — a  tattling  chamber-maid  for 
confidante  and  mistress  of  ceremonies,  and  a  devil- 
jsh  nesfro  dispatched  to  receive  the  dulcinea.     Tliis 

M 


134  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

bog-trotter  is  either  a  fool,  or  desirous  of  being  dis 
covered." 

"  How  did  you  know  anything  of  this  affair,  bro- 
ther ?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman. 

"  How  do  we  know  that  our  visage  is  furnished 
with  a  nose,  instead  of  horns?"  he  replied.  "Simply 
by  the  use  of  the  eyes.  I  am  amazed  that  any  one 
could  be  in  the  house  with  that  girl,  and  not  perceive 
her  change  of  manner, — her  suppressed  sigh,  swal- 
lowed in  a  smile,  like  the  whale  gorging  the  prophet, 
and  compelled  to  cast  him  forth  again,  her  efforts  to 
appear  unconstrained,  and  her  inability  to  be  so. 
None  but  a  doating  father  could  be  blind  to  all  this 
parapharnalia  ;  and  none  seeing  it,  and  having  been 
once  in  Cupid's  court,  could  doubt  the  author.  My 
eyes  having  opened  the  cause,  my  ears  soon  purvey- 
ed sufficient  testimony.  What  is  committed  as  a 
secret  to  school-girls  is  better  published  than  if  the 
town-crier  were  employed.  I  have  long  had  my  eye 
u}X)n  this  jewel  of  a  man,  who  imagined  that  he  was 
walking  in  darkness,  and  wasting  at  noon-day.  Not 
many  days  since,  did  I  see  this  same  Captain  Patten 
presenting  a  letter  in  the  streets  to  the  most  discreet 
and  excellent  Mademoiselle  Dubelde." 

"  Captain  Patten  !  is  that  his  name  ? — why  did  not 
you  inform  me  of  all  this,  Beauchamp  V 

"  Frankly,  because  it  would  have  done  no  good. 
You  would  only  have  fallen  into  a  passion,  and  by 
forbidding  Mary  to  see  her  lover,  have  blown  up  a 
girlish  fancy  into  an  unconquerable  flame.     Were  I 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  135 

desirous  of  precipitating  a  marriage,  1  would  hire 
either  the  parents  or  some  old  maiden  aunt  to  op- 
pose it.  The  passions  excited  by  such  a  collision, 
are  Hymen's  engines.  The  young  lady  views  her 
lover  as  a  martyr,  mistakes  her  own  obstinacy  for 
love, — marries,  and  is  undeceived.  No,  no,  my 
dear  sir. — I  have  too  much  attachment  for  the  sole 
offspring  of  my  favorite  sister,  to  hazard  such  a  re- 
sult. I  preferred  coming  in  with  my  countercheck 
at  the  crisis,  as  the  best  method  of  discomfiting  this 
rascally  Irishman,  and  of  giving  Marie,  through  the 
mortification  that  must  ensue,  such  a  lesson  upon 
the  misery  of  imprudence  and  duplicity,  as  will  pro- 
bably save  you  from  their  recurrence." 

"  But  how  did  you  discover  the  proceedings  of  to- 
night?" inquired  Dr.  Ranchon.  "I  thought  you 
were  out  of  town." 

"  A  mere  bagatelle.  1  have  not  lost  sight  of  your 
mansion  to-day.  I  was  nearer  to  your  daughter  than 
you,  when  the  shriek  of  that  abominable  Madelaine 
broke  your  trance.  It  was  my  intention  to  have  re- 
ceived the  loving  pair,  when  they  should  issue  from 
the  woodbine  porch,  in  whose  purlieus  I  was  very 
fragrantly  accommodated.  Finding  that  an  underplot 
was  accidentally  got  up  in  the  house,  I  varied  the 
last  act  of  the  drama,  and  drawing  my  sword,  pro- 
ceeded  to  seek  an  interview  with  Honey,  ere  his  ebon 
emissary  should  return  to  report  the  misadventure. 
He  was  quite  comfortably  watching  his  horses,  muf- 
fled in  a  cloak,  and  did  not  perceive  me,  until  I  was 


lo6  THE    FAMILY    FORTRAITS. 

within  five  paces,  and  called,  'Draw,  rascal !'  Having 
some  secret  impression  of  his  cowardice,  I  had  so 
placed  myself  with  regard  to  the  gate  opening  on  the 
avenue,  that  his  retreat  should  not  be  that  way. 
Father  Jupiter !  I  had  not  anticipated  that  he  was 
so  complete  a  dastard.  I  did  look  for  two  or  three 
passes  at  least.  Yet  nothing  saw  I,  but  a  pair  of 
heels  kicked  up  in  flight.  As  he  was  about  to  leap 
the  wall,  I  overtook,  and  closed  with  him.  But  un- 
fortunately entangling  myself  in  the  cloak  which  he 
threw  ofl^,  I  lost  my  sword,  and  we  should  have  had 
nothing  but  a  wrestling  match,  in  which  my  jewel, 
being  the  most  powerful  man,  would  probably  have 
had  the  advantage.  This  also  he  avoided,  for  giving 
a  leap  over  the  high  wall,  he  threw  himself  '  sheer 
out  of  Eden.'  Having  regained  my  sword,  I  fol- 
lowed, taking  care  to  secure  a  pocket-book,  which 
in  the  scuffle  had  fallen  from  him.  But  findino-  it 
was  hopeless  to  pursue  the  bog-trotter,  though  I  am 
somewhat  fleet  at  a  race,  I  turned,  and  met  his  neo-ro 
servant  driving  off*  the  chaise.  I  menaced  the  horses 
with  my  sword,  and  ordered  him  to  drive  to  the  devil. 
The  rest  you  know,  and  now  I  have  considerable 
curiosity  to  see  the  contents  of  this  fortune-hunter's 
port-feuille." 

He  produced  a  rather  spacious  red  leather  pocket- 
book,  in  which  were  various  receipts,  papers,  and 
letters  of  little  consequence.  At  length  Beauchamp 
discovered  one  in  a  female  hand,  considerably  mu- 
tilated, though  one  page  continued  legible,  and  bore 
a  recent  date. 


i 

i 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  137 

"Cork  Marcli.  ]7tli,  1724. 

"Surprised  will  ye  be,  my  loving  husband,  to 
receive  a  letter  from  me  in  Cork  ;  but  the  last  long 
winter  was  so  tediously  cold,  and  our  cabin  by  the 
pool  of  Ballyclacklin  so  shackling  and  bad,  that  my 
brother  was  fain  for  me  to  be  removing  to  Cork, 
where  he  kindly  gives  me  the  use  of  one  half  of  his 
I  own  house.     I  don't  wish  to  be  complaining   too 

much  of  hard  times,  but  would  be  right  glad  to  see 
your  sweet  face  again,  or  to  receive  any  little  mat- 
I  ter  you  could  send  me,  to  help  on  with  the  children. 

I  Dick  has  got  to  be  a  stout  boy,  and  looks  with  his 

I  eyes  as  you  do,  and  little  Biddy  has  learned  from 

I  him  to  say,  «  Arrah  !   when  will  that  daddy  of  ours 

i  be  for  coming  bock  a^ren  V — I  had  'nt  heard  where 

j  you  was  for  a  year,  or  thereabouts,  till  last  week,  | 

i  Mr.  Patrick  Thady  O'MuUigan,  of  this  place,  re- 

I  turned  from  Boston,  in  America,  bringing  news  that 

you  was  there.  He  says,  he  was  a  little  bother'd 
at  first,  and  came  nigh  not  knowing  you,  because 
you  had  taken  a  new  name ;  something  like  Paten, 
or  Patin,  and  wore  a  marvellous  rich  dress  of  a  reg- 
iment officer.  He  says  too,  that  at  first  you  declared 
it  was  not  you,  but  he  swore  that  he  'd  know  your 
father's  son  all  the  world  over, — and  then  you  told 
him  that  it  was  you.  Right  glad  was  your  loving 
wife  to  hear  that  you  was  not  drowned  in  the  salt 

sea,  and" — 

Here  the  epistle  was  torn   across. — Beauchamp 
hnd  F,?nrcely  patience  to  complete  its  perusal. 

M  2 


138  THE     FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"  Oh  !"  he  exclaimed,  brandishing  his  sword, "  that 
the  Powers  above  had  suffered  but  three  inches  of 
this  blade  to  sound  that  wretch's  heart !" 

Dr.  Ranchon  traversed  the  room,  ravins  in  an 
excess  of  passion.  He  clenched  his  hands,  and  ere 
the  reading  was  concluded,  had  vociferated  more  evil 
wishes  and  epithets,  than  it  would  be  either  conve- 
nient or  fitting  to  repeat.  Snatching  the  mutilated 
letter,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Let  her  see  it !  Let  her  see  it !  Show  her  what 
an  infernal  gulf  she  sported  near." 

Then  clasping  Beauchamp  in  his  arms,  with  a 
violence  that  almost  suffocated  him,  he  said,  half  in 
tears,  "  and  r/ow,  you  have  saved  us  !"  Beauchamp 
placing  his  hand  upon  his  brother's  arm,  as  soon  as 
he  could  extricate  himself  from  his  powerful  embrace 
said, — "  Stay !  Enough  has  been  done  for  safety. 
There  is  yet  sufficient  time  for  suffering. — She  can- 
not bear  all  at  once. — I  should  not  be  surprised, 
were  you  to  have  occasion  for  all  your  professional 
skill  in  her  chamber,  this  fortnight.  This  revulsion 
of  feeling,  call  it  what  you  will,  vanity,  lunacy,  or 
love,  cannot  be  without  physical  sympathy.  This 
'  last,  unkindest  cut  of  all,'  must  be  softened  to  her, 
as  she  can  endure  it.  In  the  meantime  send  out  of 
your  house  that  walking  pestilence,  in  the  shape  of 
a  chamber-maid.  A  ship  this  week  sails  for  France. 
— Furnish  part  of  its  freight  with  her  carcase,  and 
give  thanks  as  the  Jews  did,  when  they  were  clear 
of  the  leprosy. — If  it  sinlcs,  so  much  the  better.— 


lU 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  139 

Give  her  money  enough  to  become  a  petty  shop- 
keeper in  the  Rue  St.  Denis,— the  height  of  her  am- 
bition,  where  she  will  soon  complete  the  climax  of 

her  folly." 

Dubelde  was  accordingly  dismissed,  the  fortune- 
hunter  vanished,  and  the  prophecy  of  Beauchamp, 
respecting  Mary,  was  but  too  literally  fulfilled.— 
Long  and  severe   sickness,  with  partial   delirium, 
were  the  consequences  of  her  folly ;  and  though  her 
firmness  of  constitution  eventually  prevailed,   yet 
she  came  forth  with  wasted   bloom,  scarcely  the 
shadow  of  her  former  self.     This  protracted  period 
of  reflection  and  remorse  was  salutary.— The  fabrics 
of  vanity  wherein  she  had  trusted,  fell  around  her, 
and  her  principles  of  action  became  reversed.— With 
subdued  pride  and  renovated  feelings,  she  strove  to 
atone  for  her  faithlessness  to  her  father,  and  her  for- 
getfulness  of  her  God. 

In  due  time,  she  admitted  the  addresses  of  a  de 
scendant  of  the  Huguenots,  one  in  character  and  ac, 
complishments  altogether  worthy  of  her  affections. 
His  elevated  mind,  and  susceptible  heart,  induced 
her  to  cherish  for  him  that  mixture  of  gratitude, 
esteem  and  confidence,  which  if  it  pretend  not  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  ^  first  love,  is  something  in  itself  far 

It  is  that  state  of  feeling  into  which  requited  and 
virtuous  love  eventually  subsides;  that  pure  and 
self-devoted  friendship  which  the  author  of  the  Spec- 
tator  has   pronounced   the   '' perfection   of  love:'  ^ 


140  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Each  revolving  year  continued  to  convince  Mary  of 
what  wayward  and  romantic  youth  are  often  scepti- 
cal in  believing,  that  the  illusion  of  a  first  love,  in 
all  its  charm  and  enthusiasm,  is  but  misery,  if  un- 
sanctioned by  duty,  in  comparison  with  that  union 
of  hearts,  which  judgment  approves,  which  piety 
confirms,  and  whose  crown  is  the  smile  and  blessing 
of  a  parent. 

Perchance  some  of  my  readers,  if  haply  any  have 
attended  my  lucubrations  thus  far,  may  marvel  why 
I  have  seen  fit  to  entitle  them  family  portraits.  The 
truth  is,  that  two  antiquated  personages  have  for 
several  years  been  looking  down  upon  me  from  their 
ample  frames,  whenever  I  pass  a  particular  part  of 
our  mansion.  One  is  a  lady  dressed  in  a  brown  silk, 
with  raven  hair  parted  plainly  upon  her  forehead,  and 
holding  in  her  hand  a  snuff-box,  with  an  aspect  rather 
grave  than  beautiful.  The  partner  is  a  most  portly 
and  respectable  gentleman,  with  wig  and  ruflles, 
pointing  with  a  spy-glass  to  the  distant  Ocean,  as  if 
in  expectation  of  the  amval  of  some  richly-laden 
vessel.  Both  portraits  are  in  far  better  taste  than  is 
usual  for  those  that  bear  the  date  of  more  than  a 
century :  the  hands  in  particular,  which  are  allowed 
to  be  some  criterion  of  an  artist's  style,  are  elegant- 
ly finished. 

Having  been  divers  times  puzzled  with  inquiries 
from  visitants,  respecting  these  venerable  personages, 
I  set  myself  seriously  to  search  our  family  records, 
and  you  have  seen  the  result,  in  the  foroQoin'r  sheets. 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  141 

I  found  that  the  grave  lady  who  looks  as  if  she  might 
have  read  daily  lectures  against  coquetry  and  elope- 
ment to  her  children,  was  no  other  than  the  once 
celebrated  Mary  Ranchon,  and  that  the  gentleman 
in  such  undivided  proximity  was  that  Huguenot 
husband,  who  so  greatly  enhanced  her  happiness  by 
his  love,  and  her  respectability  by  his  wisdom.  Should 
any  person  continue  sceptical  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
facts  herein  related,  he  may  see,  should  he  travel  in 
the  land  of  steady  habits,  those  same  family  portraits, 
gratis,  and  be  told  the  name  of  the  husband  of  Mary 
Ranchon. 


%■:■(, .,/ 


1. 


"X- 


>s 


AN  HOUR  OF  ROMANCE. 


"  I  come 
To  this  sweet  place  for  quiet.    Every  tree 
And  bush,  and  fragrant  flower,  and  hilly  path, 
And  thymy  mound  that  flings  unto  the  winds 
Its  morning  incense,  is  my  friend."-Barry  ComwM. 


There  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around, 

And  low  sweet  sighs  like  those  of  childhood's  sleep, 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water ;— dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still 
They  seemed  but  pictured  glooms ;  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  us  in  a  dream, 
Under  the  fern  tufts ;  and  a  tender  gleam 
Of  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glowworm  shed, 

Came  pouring  through  the  woven  beech-boughs  down, 
And  steeped  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read 

Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown, 
A  tale  of  Palestine.* — Meanwhile  the  bee 
Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hours, 
A  drowsy  bugle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers, 
Blue  skies,  and  amber  sunshine  :  brightly  free, 
On  filmy  wings,  the  purple  dragon-fly 
Shot  glancing  like  a  fairy  javelin  by ; 
And  a  sweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  the  dell 
Where  sat  the  lone  wood-pigeon : 

*  The  Talismaa— Tales  of  the  Crvaadei* 


:s::f 


144  GOD   IS    LOVE. 

But  ere  long 
All  sertse  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spell 

Breathing  from  that  high  gorgeous  tale  grew  strong 
On  my  chained  soul ; — 'twas  not  the  leaves  I  heard  ;— 
A  Syrian  wind  the  lion-banner  stirred, 
Through  its  proud  floating  folds  : — 't  was  not  the  brook 

Singing  in  secret  through  its  glassy  glen  ; — 

A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  the  Saracen 
Pealed  from  the  desert's  lonely  heart,  and  shook 
The  burning  air. — Like  clouds  when  winds  are  high, 
O'er  glittering  sands  flew  steeds  of  Araby, 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  sudden  lance  and  spear 
Flashed  where  a  fountain's  diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadowed  by  graceful  palm-trees.     Then  the  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  swelled  freely  out, 
Sent  through  an  eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious  hue 
Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depths  of  blue  ; 
And  harps  were  there — I  heard  their  sounding  strings. 
As  the  waste  echoed  to  the  mirth  of  kings. — 
The  bright  mask  faded.     Unto  life's  worn  track, 
What  called  me  from  its  flood  of  glory  back  1 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood  ! — and  they  passed, 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim's  trumpet's  blast; 
Yet  might  I  scarce  bewail  the  splendors  gone, 
My  heart  so  leaped  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tone. 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

Sweet  the  sound  of  Nature's  voice. 
Where  the  crystal  waters  flow 

Swiftly  down  from  distant  hills. 
Murmuring  music  as  they  flow. 


GOD   IS    LOVE. 

Sweet  the  breath  of  summer  gale, 
Sweet  the  fall  of  summer  shower, 

When  the  breeze  of  evening  bears 
Perfume  from  each  dewy  flower. 

When,  amid  unfading  1 'owers, 

Ever  blooming,  ever  gay ! 
Indian  birds  of  golden  wing 

Sing  their  happy  lives  away ; 

Sweet,  where  Eastern  climes  are  bright, 

Ere  the  day  begins  to  fade. 
There  to  watch  the  yellow  light, 

GUst'ning  through  the  palm-tree's  shade,- 

Sweet,  beneath  those  cloudless  skies. 

Peace  below,  and  light  above. 
There  to  wander  forth,  and  feel 

God  is  light,  and  God  is  love. 

Sweet— but,  ah !     What  temples  there 
Meet  the  inquiring  wanderer's  eye ! 

Are  these  Indian  shrines  as  pure 
As  the  breeze,  the  flowers,  the  sky? 

In  this  soft  sequestered  spot, 

All  is  lovely,  all  is  bright ; 
Woods  adorned  with  deepest  green. 

Mountains  bathed  in  liquid  light ; 

Well  may  such  a  scene  inspire 
Hopes,  a  grovelling  world  above ; 

But  within  those  temples  fair 
No  one  knows  that  God  is  love. 

N 


145 


=^^ 


146  THE    FORGOTTEN    ONE. 

Cruel  thoughts,  and  guilty  prayer, 
Treacherous  schemes  of  vengeance  dire, 

Wake  an  echoing  anthem-peal, 
Kindle  into  kindred  fire. 

Where  the  car  of  triumph  rolls, 
See  their  hideous  monster-god ! 

Mark  their  worship — human  blood. 
Human  tears  bedew  the  sod. 

Human  misery  swells  the  cry, 
Vice  and  folly  reign  around  ; 

While  un  pitied  victims  fall 

Crushed,  and  quivering  on  the  ground. 

Such  their  worship,  such  their  creed  ; 

Sons  of  darkness,  poor,  and  blind ! 
Who  shall  wake  their  slumbering  souls, 

Who  shall  tell  them  God  is  kind  1 

Blessed  dawn  of  happier  day. 

When  these  guilty  rites  shall  cease ! 

Come,  thou  Dove  with  heavenly  wing  ! 
Hail,  thou  harbinger  of  peace ! 

Shadowing  o'er  that  Eastern  land, 
Showering  mercies  from  above ; 

Come,  and  swell  the  tide  of  joy! 
Come,  and  teach  them  God  is  Love  ! 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ONE. 

No  shadow  rests  upon  the  place 
Where  once  thy  footsteps  roved ; 


THE    FORGOTTEN    ONE.  147 

Nor  leaf,  nor  blossom,  bear  a  trace 

Of  how  thou  wert  beloved. 
The  very  night  dew  disappears 
Too  soon,  as  if  it  spread  its  tears. 

Thou  art  forgotten  !— thou,  whose  feet 

Were  listened  for  like  song ! 
They  used  to  call  thy  voice  so  sweet ; — 

It  did  not  haunt  them  long. 
Thou,  with  thy  fond  and  fairy  mirth — 
How  could  they  bear  their  lonely  hearth  I 

There  is  no  picture  to  recall 

Thy  glad  and  open  brow  ; 
No  profiled  outUne  on  the  wall 

Seems  like  thy  shadow  now ; 
They  have  not  even  kept  to  wear 
One  ringlet  of  thy  golden  hair 

When  here  we  sheltered  last,  appears 

But  just  like  yesterday  ; 
It  startles  me  to  think  that  years 

Since  then  are  passed  away. 
The  old  oak  tree  that  was  our  tent. 
No  leaf  seems  changed,  no  bough  seems  rent. 

A  shower  in  June — a  summer  shower, 

Drove  us  beneath  the  shade  ; 
A  beautiful  and  greenwood  bower 

The  spreading  branches  made, 
The  raindrops  shine  upon  the  bough 
The  passing  rain— but  where  art  thou? 


148  THE    FORGOTTEN    ONE. 

But  I  forget  how  many  showers 
Have  washed  this  old  oak  tree, 

The  winter  and  the  summer  hours, 
Since  I  stood  here  with  thee : 

And  I  forget  how  chance  a  thought 

Thy  memory  to  my  heart  has  brought. 

I  talk  of  friends  who  once  have  wept, 
As  if  they  still  should  weep  ; 

I  speak  of  grief  that  long  has  slept, 
As  if  it  could  not  sleep  ; 

I  mourn  o'er  cold  forgetfulness, 

Have  I,  myself,  forgotten  less  1 

I  've  mingled  with  the  young  and  fair, 
Nor  thought  how  there  was  laid 

One  fair  and  young  as  any  there. 
In  silence  and  in  shade. 

How  could  I  see  a  sweet  mouth  shine 

With  smiles,  and  not  remember  thine? 

Ah !  it  is  well  we  can  forget. 

Or  who  could  linger  on 
Beneath  a  sky  whose  stars  are  set. 

On  earth  whose  flowers  are  gone  ? 
For  who  could  welcome  loved  ones  near, 
Thinking  of  those  once  far  more  dear, 

Our  early  friends,  those  of  our  youth'? 

We  cannot  feel  again 
The  earnest  love,  the  simple  truth, 

Which  made  us  such  friends  then. 
We  grow  suspicious,  careless,  cold  ; 
We  love  not  as  we  loved  of  old. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  ONE. 

No  more  a  sweet  necessity, 

Love  must  and  will  expand, 
Loved  and  beloving  we  must  be, 

With  open  heart  and  hand. 
Which  only  ask  to  trust  and  share 
The  deep  affections  which  they  bear. 

Our  love  was  of  that  early  time ; 

And  now  that  it  is  past, 
It  breathes  as  of  a  purer  clime 

Than  where  my  lot  is  cast. 
My  eyes  fill  with  their  sweetest  tears 
In  thinking  of  those  early  years. 

It  shocked  me  first  to  see  the  sun 
Shine  gladly  o'er  thy  tomb ; 

To  see  the  wild  flowers  o'er  it  run 
In  such  luxuriant  bloom. 

Now  I  feel  glad  that  they  should  keep 

A  bright  sweet  watch  above  thy  sleep. 

The  heaven  whence  thy  nature  came 

Only  recalled  its  own  ; 
It  is  Hope  that  now  breathes  thy  name, 

Though  borrowing  Memory's  tone. 
I  feel  this  earth  could  never  be 
The  native  home  of  one  like  thee. 

Farewell !  the  early  dews  that  fall 
Upon  thy  grass-grown  bed 

Are  like  the  thoughts  that  now  recall 
Thine  image  from  the  dead. 

A  blessing  hallows  thy  dark  cell — 

I  will  not  stay  to  weep.     Farewell ! 
N2 


149 


150  SUMMER   WOODS. 


SUMIMER  WOODS. 

Come  ye  into  the  summer-woods ; 

There  entereth  no  annoy ; 
All  greenly  ware  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades 

The  honey-suckles  twine  ; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion. 

And  the  dark-blue  columbine. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant  "  true  lore," 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade, 

And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Unscared  by  lawless  men  ; 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  wood-pecker, 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down  and  ye  shall  see  them  all. 

The  timid  and  the  bold  ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  to  be  told. 


SUMMER  WOODS.  151 

And  far  within  that  summer-wood, 

Among  the  leaves  so  green, 
There  flows  a  little  gurgling  brook, 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Without  a  fear  of  ill, 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge, 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about. 

The  merry  little  things  ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

I  've  seen  the  freakish  squirrel  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old, — 

Great  joy  it  was  to  me  ! 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook 

I  've  seen  them  nimbly  go  ; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kind  and  low. 

The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their  heads, 

As  if,  in  heartsome  cheer, 
They  spake  unto  those  little  things, 

"  'Tis  merry  living  here  !" 

Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good. 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  w^e  would  ! 


k^ 


152  HALLOWED    BE    THY    NAME. 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there, 
Beneath  the  old  wood-shade, 

And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 
Nor  is,  of  aught,  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 
And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 

Beneath  their  feet,  nor  is  there  strife 
'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 
And  they  lovingly  agree  ; 

We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 
Beneath  the  green-wood  tree  ! 


HALLOWED  BE  THY  NAME. 

List  to  the  dreamy  tone  that  dwells 

In  rippling  wave  or  sighing  tree  ; 
Go,  hearken  to  the  old  church  bells. 

The  whistling  bird,  the  whizzing  bee. 
Interpret  right,  and  ye  will  find 

'Tis  "  power  and  glory"  they  proclaim : 
The  chimes,  the  creatures,  waters,  wind, 

All  publish,  "  hallowed  be  thy  name  !'* 

The  pilgrim  journeys  till  he  bleeds, 

To  gain  the  altar  of  his  sires ; 
The  hermit  pores  above  his  beads, 

With  zeal  that  never  wanes  nor  tires ; 
But  holiest  rite  or  longest  prayer 

That  soul  can  yield  or  wisdom  frame, 
What  better  import  can  it  bear 

Than,  *'  Father  !  hallowed  be  thy  name !" 


LOW  SHE  LIES,  WHO  BLEST  OUR  EYES.       153 
The  savag-e  kneeling  to  the  sun, 

To  give  his  thanks  or  ask  a  boon  ; 
The  raptures  of  the  idiot  one, 

Who  laughs  to  see  the  clear  round  moon ; 
The  saint  well  taught  in  Christian  lore; 

The  Moslem  prostrate  at  his  flame — 
All  worship,  wonder,  and  adore  ; 

All  end  in,  "  hallowed  be  thy  name !" 

Whate'er  may  be  man's  faith  or  creed, 

Those  precious  words  comprise  it  still : 
We  trace  them  on  the  bloomy  mead. 

We  hear  them  in  the  flowing  rill. 
One  chorus  hails  the  Great  Supreme  ; 

Each  varied  breathing  tells  the  same. 
The  strains  may  differ ;  but  the  theme 

Is,  "  Father  !  hallowed  be  thy  name  !'* 


LOW  SHE  LIES,  WHO  BLEST  OUR  EYES. 

Low  SHE  lies,  who  blest  our  eyes 

Through  many  a  sunny  day  : 
She  may  not  smile,  she  will  not  rise, — 

The  life  hath  past  away  ! 
Yet  there  is  a  world  of  light  beyond, 

Where  we  neither  die  nor  sleep  ; 
She  is  there,  of  whom  our  souls  were  fond, 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

The  heart  is  cold,  whose  thoughts  were  told 
In  each  glance  of  her  glad  bright  eye ; 

And  she  lies  pale,  who  was  so  bright 
She  scarce  seemed  made  to  die. 


154       LOW  SHE  LIES,  WHO  BLEST  OUR  EYES. 

Yet  we  know  that  her  soul  is  happy  now, 
Where  the  saints  their  calm  watch  keep ; 

That  angels  are  crowning  that  fair  young  brow,- 
Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

Her  laughing  voice  made  all  rejoice, 

Who  caught  the  happy  sound  ; 
There  was  a  gladness  in  her  very  step. 

As  it  lightly  touched  the  ground. 
The  echoes  of  voice  and  step  are  gone, 

There  is  silence  still  and  deep  ; 
Yet  we  know  she  sings  by  God's  bright  throne,— 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep? 

The  cheek's  pale  tinge,  the  lid's  dark  fringe, 

That  lies  like  a  shadow  there, 
Were  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  all, — 

And  her  glossy  golden  hair ! 
But  though  that  lid  may  never  wake 

From  its  dark  and  dreamless  sleep. 
She  is  gone  where  young  hearts  do  not  break,-— 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

That  world  of  light  with  joy  is  bright, 

This  is  a  world  of  woe  : 
Shall  we  grieve  that  her  soul  hath  taken  flight, 

Because  we  dwell  below? 
We  will  bury  her  under  the  mossy  sod. 

And  one  long  bright  tress  we  '11  keep  ; 
We  have  only  given  her  back  to  God, — 

Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  weep  1 


ORIANA. 


•Where  was  she  ?— 'Mid  the  people  of  the  ^^^ld,— 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire— An  aged  Chief, 

Whose  home  look'd  sad,-for  therein  dwelt  no  child. 

Had  borne  her  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief 

To  his  lone  cabin  :  and  thai  gentle  guide 

By  iaith  and  sorrow  rais'd  and  purified,— 

To  the  blest  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 

Until  their  prayers  were  one." 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


Amots'G  the  customs  which  distinguished  the  na- 
tives  of  our  country,  ere  the  originality  of  then-  char- 
acter  became  prostrated,  and  its  energies  broken, 
few  were  more  unique  and  interesting,  than  the  cere- 
mony of  adoption.     This  was  the  selection  of  an 
individual  to  fill  the  place  of  some  near  relative  re- 
moved  by  death.     It  was  more  generally  the  resort 
of  families  bereaved  of  a  son,  and  the  choice  was 
often  from  among  prisoners  taken  in  battle.     It  has 
been  known  to  snatch  the  victim  from  the  stake,  and 
to  encircle  him  with  all  the  domestic  charities.    The 
transferred  affection  of  parents  was  often,  m  such 
cases,  most  ardent  and  enduring.    Especially  if  any 
resemblance   existed   between   the  buried  and  the 
adopted  object,  mothers  were  prone  to  cherish  an 
idolatry  of  tenderness.    Instances  have  been  record, 
ed  in  which  the  most  ancient  national  ammosities, 


156  ORIANA. 

or  deep-rooted  personal  hatred,  have  yielded  to  this 
rite  of  adoption.  It  has  even  been  extended  to  the 
offspring  of  the  whites,  during  periods  of  deadly  war- 
fare. When  we  consider  the  implacable  temper  of 
our  aborigines,  and  that  it  was  an  article  of  their 
creed,  never  to  suffer  an  injury  to  pass  unavenged, 
this  custom  of  naturalizing  a  foe  in  their  homes,  and 
in  their  hearts,  strikes  us  as  prominent,  peculiar,  and 
worthy  to  be  held  in  remembrance. 

The  tribe  of  Mohegans  were  formerly  owners  of 
an  ample  territory  in  New-England,  and  were  uni- 
formly friendly  to  our  ancestors.  Their  kings  and 
chieftains  became  allies  of  the  colonies  in  their  in- 
fancy, and  the  bravery  of  their  warriors  aided  in 
their  struo-o-les  with  the  surrounding  tribes.  Their 
descendants  have  now  become  few  in  number,  and 
abject  in  mind.  A  circumscribed  and  inalienable 
territory,  in  the  south-eastern  part  of  Connecticut, 
furnishes  subsistence  to  the  remnant  which  has  not 
emigrated,  or  become  incorporated  with  other  na- 
tions. Emphatically,  their  glory  is  departed,  and  of 
their  primeval  energy  and  nobleness,  no  vestige  sur- 
vives. Yet  slight  kindlings  of  national  pride  con- 
tinued at  intervals  to  gleam  faintly  forth  from  be- 
neath incumbent  ruins,  as  embers,  apparently  long 
quenched,  will  sometimes  smoulder  and  sparkle  amid 
the  ashes  that  cover  them.  One  of  the  latest  evi- 
dences of  this  spirit,  was  the  watchful  affection  with 
which  they  regarded  their  royal  burying-place.  No 
vulgar  dust  was  ever  suffered  to  repose  in  the  sepul- 


ORIANA.  157 

chre  of  their  kings.  No  Cambrian  point  of  genea- 
logy  was  ever  more  vigilantly  traced,  no  restriction 
of°the  Salick  Law  more  tenaciously  guarded,  than 
was  the  farthest  and  slightest  infusion  of  the  blood 
of  Mohegan  monarchy.  Long  after  the  royal  line 
became  extinct,  and  they  were  decreed,  like  ancient 
Israel,  to  dwell "  without  an  ephod  and  without  a  ter- 
aphim,"  they  guarded  with  fierce  and  unslumbering 
jealousy  their  consecrated  cemetery  from  profana- 
tion. 

Its  monuments  are  still  visible  within  the  limits  ot 
the  city  of  Norwich,  and  sometimes  strangers  visit  with 
pitying  interest,  the  lowly  tombs  of  the  monarchs 
of  the  soil.     The  inhabitants  of  that  beautiful  city, 
in  whose  vicinity  the  village  of  Mohegan  is  situated, 
have  ever  extended  their  sympathies  to  their  "  poor 
brethren  within  their  gates."     Still  their  Christian 
benevolence  strives  to  gather  under  its  wings,  the 
perishing  remnant  of  a  once  powerful  race.  Teach- 
ers are  among  them,  of  those  sciences  which  render 
this  life  comfortable,  and  throw  the  light  of  hope  on 
the  next.  Their  little  children  are  taken  by  the  hand, 
and   led  to  Jesus.     The  white  spire   of  a   simple 
church,  recently  erected  for  their  benefit,  points  to 
that  world  where  no  heritage  is  alienated. 

The  period  selected  for  this  sketch,  is  soon  after 
the  close  of  our  War  of  Revolution.  There  then 
existed  in  the  little  settlement  of  Mohegan,  some  in- 
dividuals  worthy  of  being  rescued  from  oblivion. 
Amon^  them  was  the  Reverend  Samson  Occum,  the 

O 


158  ORIANA. 

first  native  minister  of  that  tribe,  whose  unostenta- 
tious fortunes  are  interwoven  with  the  ecclesiastical 
history  of  that  day.  The  benevolence  of  the  Rev- 
erend President  Wheelock  of  Dartmouth  College, 
drew  him  from  the  vagrant  habits  of  the  Indian 
hunter,  and  touched  his  mind  with  the  love  of  letters 
and  of  piety.  Ten  years  before  our  Declaration  of 
Independence,  he  made  a  voyage  to  England,  and 
was  received  with  the  most  kind  and  gratifying  at- 
tention. Among  the  treasured  memorials  of  this 
visit,  were  correspondences  with  some  of  the  wise 
and  philanthropic  of  the  mother-country,  which  he 
faithfully  maintained,  and  the  gift  of  a  library  of  con- 
siderable value,  which  after  his  decease  was  pur- 
chased by  a  clergyman  in  the  vicinity.  His  discourses 
in  his  native  tongue  often  produced  a  strong  impres- 
sion on  his  hearers,  and  those  in  the  English  lan- 
guage displayed  an  acquaintance  with  its  idiom,  and 
a  facility  of  rendering  it  a  vehicle  for  strong  and 
original  thought,  highly  creditable  both  to  his  talents 
and  their  application.  He  possessed  a  decided  taste  for 
poetry,  especially  that  of  a  devotional  cast ;  and  a 
volume  of  this  nature,  which  he  selected  and  pub- 
lished, evinces  that  he  fervently  appreciated  the  pa- 
thetic and  the  powerful.  His  deportment  was  grave 
and  consistent,  as  became  a  teacher  of  divine  things, 
and  his  overflowing  eyes,  when  he  strove  to  allure 
his  people  to  the  love  of  a  Saviour,  testified  his  own 
warm  religious  sensibilities,  and  revealed  the  found- 
ation of  his  happiness  and  hope. 


ORIAJfA. 


159 


The  native,  untaught  eloquence  of  the  tribe,  had 
also  a  representative.  Robert  Ashbow  was  collater- 
ally of  the  royal  line,  and  held  in  high  reverence  by 
his  people.  His  commanding  stature  and  lofty  brow 
marked  him  as  one  of  Nature's  nobility.  He  was 
respected  by  our  ancestors,  and  when  their  govern- 
ment became  permanent,  was  permitted  to  represent 
his  people  in  their  national  council.  Among  their 
senators,  his  words  were  few.  But  in  his  \?ell- 
weighed  opinions,  in  his  wary  policy,  they  were  ac- 
customed to  liken  him  to  the  wise  and  wily  Ulysses. 
They  understood  him  not.  His  eloquence  was  like 
a  smothered  flame,  in  their  presence.  It  spoke  not 
even  through  the  eye,  wdiich  was  ever  downcast, 
nor  lighted  the  brow  that  bore  a  rooted  sorrow. 
It  burst  forth  only  in  his  native  wilds,  and  among 
his  own  people.  There,  like  a  torrent,  it  swept  all 
before  it.  It  swayed  their  spirits,  as  the  tempest 
bends  the  lithe  willow. 

Though  he  keenly  felt  the  broken  and  buried  ma- 
jesty of  his  nation,  he  cherished  no  vindictiveness 
towards  those  who  had  caused  it.  He  had  a  deep 
reverence  for  knowledge  and  its  possessors,  whicli 
neutralized  this  bitterness.  Like  the  tamed  lion,  ne 
yielded  to  a  force  which  he  did  not  comprehend. 
Thouo-h  by  nature  reserved  and  dominant,  he  almost 
crouchingly  sought  the  society  of  educated  white 
men,  for  among  them  alone  could  his  thirst  of  know- 
ledge be  satiated.  He  v/as  an  affecting  instance  of 
savage  pride,  humbling  itself  before  the  might  of  cul. 


lt)0  ORIAXA. 

tivated  intellect.  At  times,  his  melancholy  mood 
predominated,  and  for  days  and  nights  he  withdrew 
to  pathless  forests,  holding  communication  with  none. 
He  might  occasionally  be  discovered,  amid  the  crags 
of  some  scarcely  accessible  rock,  with  his  head  bow- 
ed low  in  frowning  and  solitary  contemplation,  like 
I\Iarius  amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  There  was 
about  him,  the  waywardness  of  genius,  preying  upon 
its#f,  and  the  pride  of  a  wounded  spirit,  which  would 
have  grasped  the  hoof  that  trampled  on  it,  and  hurl- 
ed the  rider  to  the  dust.  Yet  there  was  an  innate 
check  in  his  own  native  nobleness,  in  his  power  of 
appreciating  superior  mental  excellence.  Knowledge 
had  stood  before  him,  in  her  majesty  and  mystery, 
and  the  haughty  orator  of  the  forest  was  subdued 
like  an  awe-struck  child. 

Arrowhamet,  the  warrior,  or  Zachary,  as  he  was 
generally  called,  by  the  name  of  his  baptism,  was 
an  interesting  specimen  of  aboriginal  character. 
Stately,  unbending,  and  of  athletic  strength,  he 
seemed  to  defy  the  ravages  of  time,  though  the  re- 
cord of  his  memory  proved  that  he  had  passed  the 
prescribed  limit  of  threescore  years  and  ten.  He  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  severe  campaign  that  preceded 
the  defeat  of  Braddock  in  1755,  and  had  borne  the 
hardships  and  perils  of  the  eight  years'  war  of  our 
revolution,  with  an  unshrinkino;  valor.  With  the 
taciturnity  of  his  nation,  he  seldom  spoke  of  the 
exploits  in  which  he  had  been  engaged.  Yet  when 
sometimes  induced  by  urgency,  to  give  a  narrative 


OKI  AN  A.  1^1 

of  the  battles  where  he  had  fought,  his  flashing  eye, 
and  form  rising  still  more  loftily,  attested  his  warlike 
enthusiasm. 

His  wife,  Martha,  who  had,  with  him,  embraced 
the  Christian  religion,  possessed  that  gentleness  of 
deportment,  and  sweetness  of  voice,  by  which  the 
females  among  our  aborigines  were  often  distinguish- 
ed.    His  attachment  to  her  was  evinced  by  more 
of  courteousness  than  comported  with  their  national 
coldness  of  manner,  and  was  reciprocated  by  a  ten- 
der and  unvarying  observance,  which  might  have 
adorned  a  more  refined  state  of  society.     Their  lit- 
tle abode  had  an  aspect  of  neatness  and  comfort, 
beyond  what  was  often  attained  by  the  supine  habits 
of  their   contemporaries.     It  was   environed  by   a 
tolerably  well-cultivated  garden,  and  sheltered  by  a 
rude  tenement ;  in  its  rear,  a  cow  quietly  ruminated. 
Other  indications  of  care  and  judicious  arrangement 
miaht  have  marked  it  out  as  the  dwelling  of  a  white 
man,  rather  than  an  Indian.    A  mysterious  person- 
acre  had  been  added  to  the  family,  which,  within  the 
memory  of  the  young,  had  comprised  only  Zachary 
and  Martha.     Since  this  accession,  many  improve- 
ments in  their  humble  establishment  had  been  visible. 
Fragrant  shrubs  were  taught  to  flourish,  and  flower- 
ino- vines  trained  against  the  window.     Bee-hives, 
clusterincr  near,  sent  forth  the  cheerful  hum  of  wing- 
ed  indusU-y.     Beds  of  aromatic  herbs  were  reared 
for  the  accommodation  of  their  busy  inmates,  and 
thev  mi-ht  be  seen  settling  upon  them,  with  intense 
^       °  0  2 


^62  ORIAi\A. 

delight,  and  pursuing  their  exquisite  chemistry,  be- 
neath the  earUest  smile  of  morning.  The  baskets, 
in  whose  construction  Martha  had  been  ions:  accus- 
tomed  to  employ  her  leisure,  now  displayed  on  their 
smooth  compartments  the  touches  of  a  more  delicate 
pencil  than  the  natives  could  boast,  or  perhaps  ap- 
preciate. 

The  neighboring  Indians  had  remarked,  that  this 
guest  of  their  friends  was  a  female,  and  some  of 
them  had  testified  surprise,  and  even  disgust,  that 
she  was  of  the  race  of  the  whites.  It  was  also  ob- 
served that  she  seemed  to  be  in  ill-health,  and  sel- 
dom quitted  the  dwelling ;  but  as  she'  spoke  mildly  to 
all  its  visitants,  and  treated  their  children  with  kind- 
ness, they  became  conciliated  and  friendly.  Any 
inquiry  respecting  her,  received  only  the  laconic  an- 
swer,— "  She  is  our  daughter.''^  It  was  at  once 
perceived  that  their  friends  wished  to  make  no  dis- 
closures. Their  right  to  preserve  secrecy  was  con- 
ceded, and  never  more  encroached  upon. 

The  Indian  yields  such  a  point,  with  far  more 
grace  than  his  Yankee  neighbors.  They,  indeed, 
admit,  that  a  man's  house  is  his  castle,  but  deny  his 
right  of  excluding,  by  bolt  or  bar,  their  exploring, 
unslumbering  curiosity.  The  privilege  of  prying 
into,  questioning,  and  canvassing  the  concerns  of 
every  household,  and  trying  all  men,  and  their  mo- 
tives, without  a  jury  of  peers,  is  their  Magna  Charta. 
For  this,  they  are  ready  to  contend  as  manfully 
as  the  barons  before  whom  king  John  cowered  at 


ORIANA.  ^'^  ^ 


Runimede.  To  the  exercise  of  such  a  prerogative, 
competent  knowledge  of  the  doings  of  every  domi- 
cile is  requisite,  and  the  power  of  making  every  body's 
business  their  own.  How  much  espionage,  gossip- 
ing, and  travelling  night  and  day,  is  essential  to  this 
system  of  policy,  let  the  inhabitants  of  almost  any 
of  the  New-England  villages  testify.  In  these  re- 
spects, the  native  Indian  is  surely  a  model  of  polite- 
ness for  them. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  the  guest  of  the  aged 
warrior  and  his  wife,  was  in  feeble  health.     Their 
tender   and  unceasing  cares, — their  expedients    to 
promote  her  comfort  and  alleviate  her  suffering,  were 
truly  paternal.     The  hoary-headed  man  would  go 
forth  as  a  hunter,  or  urge  his  boat  into  deep  and  dis- 
tant waters,  to  obtain  something  that  might  tempt 
her  declining  appetite.  He  would  pass  with  the  agile 
step  of  youth,  the  several  miles,  that  intervened  be- 
tween their  settlement  and  the  city,  to  procure  for 
her  some  of  those  tropical  fruits  which  are  so  grate- 
ful to  the  parched  and  febrile  lip.     Martha  exerted 
constantly,  but  almost  in  vain,  her  utmost  skill  in 
the  culinary  art;  she  brought  statedly  the  draught 
of  new,  warm  milk,  and  added  to  her  dessert  the 
purest  honey.     She  explored  the  fields  for  the  first 
ripe  strawberries,  which  she  presented  in  little  bas- 
kets of  fresh,  green  leaves,  garnished  with  flowers. 
She  sat  whole  nights  by  the  couch  of  the  invalid,  and 
was  near  her  side  at  every  indication  of  pain,  as  the 
nursinp--motber  watches  the  cradled  infant.     These 


U 


L_ 


164  ORIANA. 

attentioPaS  were  received  with  a  grateful  smile,  or  with 
the  softest  voice  of  thanks ;  but  they  availed  little. 
The  lily  grew  paler  on  its  stem,  and  seemed  likely 
to  wither  away  in  its  unrevealed  loveliness. 

Advancing  spring  was  now  every  day  dispensing 
some  new  gift  to  the  earth.  Her  lavishness  seemed 
pro])ortioned  to  the  brevity  of  her  stay,  and  each 
hour  exhibited  some  bright  memorial  of  her  parting 
bounty.  The  two  most  delightful  seasons  of  the  year 
lingered  for  a  moment  on  each  other's  boundary. 
They  stood  forth  in  their  unadjusted  claims  to  supe- 
riority, scanned  each  other's  drapery,  dipped  their 
pencils  in  each  other's  dyes,  and  like  rival  goddesses 
contended  before  the  sons  of  men,  for  the  palm  of 
beauty.  The  rude  domain  of  the  children  of  the 
forest,  put  on  its  beautiful  garments.  They,  whose 
pretensions  to  equality  were  denied  by  their  more 
fortunate  brethren,  were  not  excluded  by  nature  from 
her  smiles,  or  her  exuberance.  Through  the  rich 
green  velvet  of  their  meadows,  pure  fountains  look- 
ed up  with  their  crystalline  eyes,  wild  flowers  un- 
folded their  petals,  and  from  every  copse  issued 
strains  of  warbling  melody,  as  if  a  voice  of  praise 
perpetually  repeated, — "  Thou  makest  the  outgoings 
of  the  morning  and  of  the  evening  to  rejoice." 

The  abode  of  Zachary  and  Martha  felt  the  en- 
livening influence  of  the  season.  Their  fragrant 
shrubbery  exhaled  a  purer  essence,  a  sweet-brier 
near  their  door  expanded  its  swelling  buds,  and  tho 
woodbine  protruded  its  young  tendrils  to  reach  the 


ORIANA.  165 

window  of  the  invalid.  But  within  its  walls,  was 
age  that  knew  no  spring,  and  youth  fading  like  a 
blighted  flower  ;  night,  that  could  know  no  dawning, 
and  morning  that  must  never  ascend  to  noon. 

Day  had  closed  over  the  inhabitants  of  that  peace- 
ful dwelling.     The  warrior  and  his  companion  were 
seated  in  the  room  appropriated  to  their  mysterious 
guest.     Languidly  reclining,  she  watched  the  rising 
of  the  full,  unclouded  moon,  like  one  who  loves  its 
beams,  and  in  gazing,  contemplates  a  returnless  fare- 
well.    The  bright  profuse  tresses  of  that  beautiful 
being,  twining  in  braids  around  a  head  of  perfect 
symmetry,   formed  a  strong  contrast  to  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  her  brow,  and  seemed  to  deepen  the 
tint  of  her  soft,  blue  eye.     But  the  paleness  of  her 
cheek  was  now  tinted  with  that  ominous  hectic  flush 
which  Death  kindles,  as  the  signal  of  his  approaching 
victory.     Sometimes,  it  lent  to  the  eye,  a  ray  of 
such  unearthly  brightness,   that  the  Indian  mother 
could  not  look  on  it,  without  a  tear.  She  had  recent- 
ly remarked  to  her  husband,  that  the  form  of  the 
uncomplaining   victim    was   becoming    daily  more 
emaciated,  and  her  respiration  more  impeded  and 
laborious. 

The  invalid  gazed  long  on  the  moon,  with  a  fore- 
head resting  on  a  hand  of  the  purest  whiteness,  and 
so  attenuated,  that  it  seemed  to  display  the  flexile 
fingers  of  childhood.  Turning  her  eyes  from  that 
beautiful  orb,  she  observed  those  of  the  aged  pair 
fixed  upon  her  with  intense  earnestness.     A  long 


iL 


'-~] 


166  ORIAJfA. 

pause  ensued.  Something  that  refused  utterance 
seemed  to  agitate  her.  Marking  the  emotion  which 
varied  a  countenance  usually  so  serene  and  passion- 
less, they  forbore  to  interrupt  her  meditations.  They 
even  dreaded  to  hear  her  speak,  lest  it  might  be  of 
separation.  At  length,  a  voice,  tremulous  and  mu- 
sical as  the  stricken  harp,  was  heard  to  say, — 

"  Father,  I  desire  to  partake  of  the  holy  commu- 
nion. I  have  not  enjoyed  that  privilege,  since 
leaving  my  native  land,  and  my  soul  desires  it." 

"  He  who  interprets  to  us  Indians,  the  will  of 
God,"  said  Zachary,  "  is  now  among  our  brethren, 
the  Oneidas.  Three  moons  may  pass,  ere  he  again 
return." 

*'  That  may  be  too  late,  father,"  replied  the  same 
tuneful,  subdued  tone.  "Wilt  thou  seek  for  me  some 
other  clergyman?" 

The  warrior  signified  his  assent,  and  rising,  took 
from  her  hand  a  paper  which  she  held  to  him. 

*'  Some  explanation  of  my  history  is  necessary, 
ere  I  could  expect  this  favor.  I  have  here  written 
it,  for  thou  knowest  that  I  cannot  now  speak  many 
words.     I  am  weak,  and  must  soon  pass  away." 

Martha  rose  with  that  indefinable  sensation  which 
prompts  us  to  shrink  from  any  subject  that  agonizes 
our  feelings.  Throwing  up  the  casement,  through 
which  the  balmy  humid  air  of  spring  breathed,  she 
said, — 

"  See,  Oriana,  how  thy  woodbine  grows  !  Soon, 
its  young  blossoms  will  lift  their  heads,  and  look  at 
thee  throush  the  window." 


OKI  AN  A.  167 

"  Let  it  remind  thee  of  me,  kind  mother.  May  its 
fragrance  be  soothing  to  thee,  as  thy  tenderness  has 
been,  to  my  lone  heart." 

Again  there  was  silence.  And  then  the  hoary 
warrior,  raising  his  head  from  his  bosom,  where  it 
had  declined,  spoke,  in  a  voice  which  as  he  proceed- 
ed, grew  more  audible  and  calm, — 

"  Daughter,  I  understand  thee.  I  am  glad,  that 
thou  hast  spoken  thy  mind  to  us.  Yet  is  my  heart 
now  weak,  as  that  of  an  infant, — the  heart  that  in 
battle  hath  never  trembled,  or  swerved.  My  daugh- 
ter, Zachary  could  lie  down  in  his  own  grave,  and 
not  shudder.  Yet  his  soul  is  soft,  when  he  sees  one 
so  young  and  fair,  withering  like  the  rose,  which  the 
hidden  worm  eateth.  He  hath  desired  to  look  on 
thy  brow,  during  the  short  space  that  remaineth  for 
him  on  earth.  Every  night,  he  hath  prayed  to  the 
Eternal,  that  his  ears  might  continue  to  hear  the 
music  of  thy  voice.  He  wished  to  have  something 
to  love,  that  should  not  be  like  himself,  an  old  tree, 
stripped  of  its  branches,  and  mouldering  at  the  root. 
But  he  must  humble  his  heart.  Thou  hast  read  to 
him  from  the  holy  and  blessed  Book,  that  God  giveth 
grace  unto  the  humble.  He  hath  asked  with  tears, 
in  the  silence  of  midnight,  for  that  salvation  through 
Christ,  of  which  thou  hast  told  him.  Yet,  to  whom 
will  he  and  Martha  turn,  when  thou  art  no  longer 
here  ?  Who  will  kindly  lead  their  steps  to  the  tree 
of  life  ?  Ask  I  what  we  shall  do,  as  if  we  had  yet 
a  hundred  years  to  dwell  below  ?  Soon  shall  we 
sleep  in  the  grave,  to  which  thou  art  hastening." 


16S  ORIANA. 

"  Whither  I  go,  ye  know,"  said  the  same  sweet, 
solemn  voice, — "  and  the  way  ye  know.  Trust  in 
Him,  whom  ye  have  beheved.  Like  me,  ye  must 
slumber  in  the  dust ;  His  power  shall  raise  us  all, 
at  the  last  day.  The  Eternal,  in  whose  sight,  shades 
of  complexion  and  distinctions  of  rank  are  nothing, 
He,  who  looketh  only  upon  the  heart,  guide  us  where 
we  shall  be  sundered  no  more." 

Laying  her  hand  upon  a  small  bible,  which  was 
ever  near  her,  Martha  arose  to  bring  the  lamp, 
that  she  might  as  usual  read  to  them,  before  re- 


tn*mg. 


"  It  is  in  vain,  mother,"  she  said,  with  a  lamb-like 
smile.  I  may  not  now  say  with  thee,  our  evening 
prayer.  But  let  us  lift  up  our  hearts  to  Him  who 
heareth,  when  the  weak  lips  can  only  utter  sighs." 

Then,  as  if  regretting  that  they  should  separate 
for  the  night,  without  mingling  in  devotion,  she  re- 
peated with  deep  pathos,  a  few  passages  from  the 
beloved  disciple, — 

"  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled :  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  father's  house  are 
many  mansions.' " 

The  warrior,  rising  to  take  his  leave,  laid  his  hand 
gently  upon  her  head,  and  pronounced  his  customa- 
ry paternal  benediction : — 

"  The  Great  Spirit,  who  dwelleth  where  the  Sun 
hideth  himself,  and  where  the  tempest  is  born,  gird 
thee  with  strength.  He  who  maketh  the  earth  green, 
and  the  heart  of  man  glad,  smile  on  thee,  and  bless 
thy  slumbers." 


ORIANA.  1^'-^ 

Martha  remained,  to  render  her  usual  attentions 
to  the  sufferer.  She  dared  not  trust  her  voice  be- 
yond a  whisper,  lest  it  should  wholly  yield  to  her 
emotions.  Still,  after  her  services  were  completed, 
she  lingered,  unwilling  to  leave  the  object  of  her 

care.  ,  . 

"  Mother,"  said  a  faint  voice,  "  kind,  tender  mo- 
ther   go  to  thy  rest.     Oriana  hath  now  no  pam. 
Sleep  will  descend  upon  her.     She  feels  that  she 
shall  not  leave  thee  this  night.     But  soon  she  must 
beo-in  her  journey  to  the  land  of  souls.     She  hath 
hope  in  her  death,  to  pass  from  darkness  to  eternal 
sunshine.     Weep   not,   blessed  mother.     Lift  thy 
heart  to   the   God  of  consolation.     I  believe  that 
whither  I  go,  thou  shalt  come  also.     I  shall  return 
no  more.     Thou,  and  thy  beloved,  shall  come  unto 
me.  There  will  be  scarcely  time  to  mourn ;  for,  like 
the  gliding  of  a  shadow,  shall  the  parents  follow  the 
child  of  their  adoption." 

A  smile  so  celestial  was  on  the  brow  of  her  who 
spoke,  that  it  would  have  cheered  the  heart  ot  the 
aged  woman,  but  for  the  afflicting  consciousness, 
that  she  must  soon  behold  it  no  more. 

The  ensuing  day,  the  summoned  clergyman 
sought  the  settlement  of  the  natives,  and  entered  the 
houle  of  Zachary  and  Martha.  He  received  their 
respectful  salutations  with  benignity,  and  seemed 
struck  with  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  stranger- 
guest.  After  a  conversation,  in  which  he  was  con- 
vinced  of  her  religious  education,  correct  belief,  and 

P 


170 


ORIANA. 


happy  spiritual  state,  he  prepared  to  administer  the 
rite  which  she  had  desired.  Beckoning  to  her  side 
the  old  warrior  and  his  wife,  she  said, — 

"  These  are  Christians.  They  were  baptised, 
many  years  since,  by  Mr.  Occum,  their  absent  min- 
ister. I  can  bear  witness,  that  they  know  and  love 
the  truth.  May  they  not  join  in  this  holy  ordinance, 
to  the  edification  of  their  souls  ?" 

The  clergyman,  regarding  them  steadfastly,  in- 
quired,— 

"  Are  ye  in  perfect  charity  with  all  men  ?" 

Bowing  himself  down,  the  aged  man  replied,  so- 
lemnly,— 

"  We  are. — The  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  hath 
taught  even  us,  Indians,  to  forgive  our  enemies." 

They  kneeled  around  the  bed.  The  stately  war- 
rior, whose  temples  had  been  whitened  by  the  snows 
of  time,  and  the  storms  of  war,  humbled  himself  as 
the  weaned  child.  The  red-browed  woman,  whose 
tears  flowed  incessantly,  was  not  able  to  turn  her 
eyes  from  that  fading  flower,  which  she  had  shelter- 
ed, and  which  she  loved,  as  if  it  had  sprung  from 
her  own  wild  soil.  But  the  beautiful  being  for  whose 
sake  these  sacred  services  were  thus  performed,  was 
calm  and  untroubled  as  the  lake,  on  which  nothing 
save  the  beam  of  heaven  hath  ever  shone.  Raised 
above  earthly  fears  and  hopes,  she  seemed  to  have 
a  foretaste  of  the  consummation  that  awaited  her. 
The  heart  of  the  man  of  God  was  touched.  His 
voice  faltered  as  he  pronounced  the  closing  bene- 


jORIANA.  171 

diction,  and  a  tear  starting  to  his  mild  eye,  attested 
the  accordance  of  his  soul  with  the  sympathies  of  the 

scene. 

A  brief  pause  ensued.  Each  was  fearful  of  inter- 
rupting the  meditations  of  the  other.  Like  the  guests 
at  some  celestial  banquet,  earth,  and  the  things  of 
earth,  seemed  emptiness  to  the  sublimated  spirit. 
She  dreads  too  suddenly  to  efface  the  brightness 
which  has  gathered  around  her,  and  which  like  the 
witness  on  the  brow  of  Moses,  descending  from  the 
mount,  proves  communion  with  the  Eternal. 

To  the  inquiry  of  the  departing  clergyman,  in 
what  way  he  might  impart  temporal  comfort,  or 
whether  the  visits  of  a  physician  were  not  desirable, 
Oriana  replied, — 

"  T  have  no  want,  but  what  these  kind  and  watch- 
ful beings  tenderly  supply.     Their  knowledge   of 
medicine  is  considerable,  and  they  prepare  with  skill, 
soothing  and  assuasive  remedies,  drawn  from  that 
earth,  to  whose  bosom  I  am  hastening.     With  the 
nature  of  my  disease,  I  am  acquainted.     I  saw  all 
its  variations  in  my  mother,  for  whom  every  exer- 
tion of  professional  skill  was  fruitless.     I  feel  upon 
my  heart,  a  cold  hand.     Whither  it  is  leading  me,  I 
know.     To  you.  Sir,  I  shall  look  for  those  spiritual 
consolations,  which  are  all  that  my  brief  earthly  pil- 
grimage covets.  W^hen  my  ear  is  closed  to  the  sound 
of  other  voices,  speak  to  me  of  my  Redeemer,  and 
the  eye  that  is  dim  in  death,  shall  once  more  bright- 
en, to  bless  you." 


]  72  ORIAXA. 

Zachary  and  ■Martha  poured  forth,  with  the  t'lo- 
quence  of  the  heart,  their  thanks  to  the  servant  of 
peace  and  consolation.  Even  the  skirts  of  his  gar- 
ments were  dear  to  them,  since  he  had  thus  impart- 
ed comfort  to  tlie  object  of  their  affections. 

Exhausted  in  body,  but  confirmed  in  faith,  Oriana 
awaited  her  dissolution.  Such  was  the  wastinsf  of 
her  frame,  that  she  seemed  like  a  li2;ht  essence, 
trembhng,  and  ready  to  be  exhaled.  Every  morn- 
ing, she  requested  the  casement  to  be  raised,  that  the 
fresh  air  might  visit  her.  It  came,  loaded  with  the 
perfume  of  those  flowers,  which  she  was  to  nurture 
no  more.  But  what  was  at  first  sought  as  a  plea- 
sure, became  necessary  to  aid  the  struo-crles  of  labo- 
rious  respiration.  The  couch  became  her  constant 
refuge.  The  debility  of  that  fearful  disease,  whicii, 
delighting  to  feed  on  the  most  exquisite  food,  selects 
for  its  victims  the  fair  and  excellent,  increased  to  an 
almost  insupportable  degree.  A  tranquil  loveliness 
sat  upon  her  features,  occasionally  brightening  into 
joy,  like  one  who  felt  that  "  redemption  draweth 
nigh." 

One  night,  sleep  had  not  visited  her  eyes.  When- 
ever her  senses  inclined  to  its  transient  sway,  the 
spirit  revolted  against  it  as  oppression,  anticipating 
the  approaching  delights  of  that  region,  where  it 
should  slumber  no  more  throuo-h  fullness  of  bliss. 

Calling  to  her  bed-side,  at  the  dawn  of  morning, 
the  aged  warrior,  for  her  mother  had  not  quitted  her 
room  for  several  nights,  she  said, — 


ORIANA.  173 

"  Knowest  thou,  father,  thcat  I  am  now  to  leave 
thee  1" 

Fixing  his  keen  glance  on  her  for  a  moment,  and 
kneeling  at  her  side,  he  answered, — 

"  Daughter,  I  know  it.  Thy  blue  eye  hath  al- 
ready the  light  of  that  sky,  whither  thou  art  ascend- 
ing. Thy  brow  is  bright  with  the  smile  of  the  angels 
who  wait  for  thee." 

Martha  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  hid 
it  on  the  couch,  fearful  lest  she  might  see  the  agony 
of  one  so  beloved.  Yet  she  fixed  on  those  pale  fea- 
tures, one  more  long,  tender,  sorrowing  gaze,  as  the 
expiring  voice  uttered — 

"  I  go,  where  is  no  shade  of  complexion,  no  tear 
of  mourning.  I  go  to  my  parents,  who  died  in  faith, 
— to  my  husband,  whose  hope  was  in  his  Redeemer. 
I  shall  see  thy  daughter,  and  she  will  be  my  sister, 
v/here  all  is  love.  Father  ! — Mother  ! — that  God 
whom  you  have  learned  to  worship,  whose  spirit 
dwells  in  your  hearts,  will  guide  you  thither,  also." 

She  paused,  and  gasped  painfully  for  breath,  as 
if  to  add  more.  Then,  extending  to  each  a  hand 
cold  as  marble,  she  faintly  whispered, — 

"  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in  : — sick,  and 
ye  ministered  unto  me.  And  now,  blessing  you,  I 
go  unto  Him,  who  hath  said,  the  '  merciful  shall 
obtain  mercy.'  He  will  remember  your  love  to  her 
who  had  none  to  pity." 

They  felt  that  the  chilling  clasp  of  her  fingers 
relaxed.     They  saw  that  her  lips  moved  inaudibly. 

P2 


^■'^--  gwr'>«>  inw^gg-^.-^-.*^ 


174 


ORIANA. 


They  knew,  by  the  upraised  glance  of  her  glazed 
eye,  that  she  spoke  to  Hun  who  was  receiving  her 
to  himself.  A  smile,  not  to  be  described,  gleamed 
like  a  ray  of  sunshine  over  her  countenance.  Bend- 
ing over  her  pillow,  they  heard  the  words, — "joy 
unspeakable,  and  full  of  glory."  Something  more 
was  breathed  inarticulately.  But  she  closed  not  the 
sentence  : — it  urns  finished  in  Heaven  ! 

Deep  silence  settled  over  the  apartment  of  the 
dead,  save  the  sobs  of  the  bereaved  Martha,  and  at 
long  intervals  a  sigh,  as  if  rending  the  breast  of  the 
aged  warrior.  At  length,  he  spoke  with  a  tremulous 
and  broken  tone, — 

"  She  was  as  the  sun  to  our  path.  Hath  she  faded 
behind  the  dark  mountains  ?  No, — she  hath  arisen 
to  brighter  skies.  Beams  of  her  ]io;ht  will  sometimes 
visit  and  cheer  us.  Thou  hast  wept  for  two  daugh- 
ters, Martha.  One,  thou  didst  nurse  upon  thy  breast. 
But  was  she  dearer  than  this  ?  AVas  not  the  child 
of  our  adoption,  near  to  thy  heart,  as  she  to  whom 
thou  gavest  life  ?  Henceforth,  we  can  be  made  child- 
less  no  more.  Let  us  dry  up  the  fountain  of  our 
tears,  lest  they  displease  the  God  to  whom  she  hath 
ascended." 

The  day  seemed  of  interminable  length  to  the 
afflicted  pair.  Long  accustomed  to  measure  time  by 
the  varieties  of  solicitude,  the  loss  of  that  sole  object 
of  their  care,  gave  the  tardy  hours  an  almost  insup- 
portable weight.  Towards  evening,  the  clergyman 
who,  since  the  administration  of  the  communion  to 


ORIANA.  175 

Oriana,  had  repeatedly  visited  her,  was  seen  to  ap- 
proach.  Zachary  hastened  to  meet  him.  The  agi- 
tation which  had  so  long  marked  his  countenance, 
with  anxiety  for  the  sufferer,  had  passed  away,  and 
he  resumed  his  native  cahnness  and  dignity  of  de- 
meanor. His  deportment  seemed  an  illustration  of 
the  words  of  the  king  of  Israel,  when  his  child  was 

smitten, — 

"  He  is  dead.  Wherefore  should  I  mourn  1  Can 
I  bring  him  back  again  ?  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he 
shall  not  return  to  me." 

Bowing  down  to  the  man  of  God,  he  said, — 

"  She,  whom  thou  seekest,  is  not  here.  She  is 
risen.  She  went  her  way,  ere  the  sun  looked  upon 
the  morning.     Come,  see  the  place  where  she  lay." 

Departing  from  that  distance  of  respect,  bordering 
upon  awe,  which  he  had  hitherto  testified  to  the  guide 
of  Oriana,  he  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to 
her  apartment,  as  if  he  felt  that  in  the  house  of 
death,  all  distinctions  were  levelled,  all  ranks  made 
equal.     There  lay  the  lifeless  form,  in  unchanged 
beauty.     Profuse  curls  shaded  with  their  rich  and 
glossy  hue,  the  pure  oval  forehead,  which  bore  no 
furrow  of  care,  nor  trace  of  pain.     It  seemed  as  if 
the  exquisite  symmetry  of  those  chiselled  features, 
had  never  been  perfectly  revealed  but  by  the  hand 
of  death.     The  long,  silken  eye-lashes  lay  in  pro- 
found repose,  and  it  was  thrilling  even  to  awe,  to 
gaze  upon  that  surpassing  loveliness,  rendered  more 
sacred  by  having  so  peacefully  past  the  last  dread 
ordeal. 


] 


^o 


(C 


ORIA^'A. 


It  is  finished,"  said  the  divine,  but  no  tear  start- 
ed to  his  placid  eye.  He  believed,  that  if  there  is 
joy  in  heaven  among  the  angels,  over  one  sinner 
that  repenteth,  there  should  be,  at  least,  resignation 
on  earth,  when  a  saint  is  admitted  to  their  glorious 
company.  He  kneeled  in  prayer  with  the  mourners, 
and  spoke  kind  words  of  comfort  to  them,  as  to  his 
brethren,  and  made  arrangements  with  them,  that 
the  remains  of  their  beloved  one  might  rest  in  con- 
secrated earth. 

Three  days  elapsed,  and  the  scene  changed  to  the 
burial-ground  in  Norwich,  where  a  few  forms,  seen 
indistinctly  through  drooping  shades,  were  watching 
the  arrival  of  some  funeral  train. 

Perhaps,  amid  that  musing  group,  were  some  re- 
cent mourners,  who  felt  their  wounds  bleed  afresh,  at 
the  sight  of  an  open  grave.  Some  parent  might  be 
there,  lingering  in  agony  over  the  newly-covered  bed 
of  his  child ;  some  daughter,  kneeling  to  kiss  the 
green  turf  on  the  breast  of  her  mother ;  some  lover, 
passionately  weeping  over  the  ruins  of  the  fondest 
hope.  How  many  varieties  of  grief  had  that  nar- 
row spot  witnessed,  since  it  cast  its  heavy  mantle 
over  the  head  of  its  first  tenant !  How  many  hearts 
had  there  laid  the  cherished  roses  of  their  bower, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  their  withering  pilgrim- 
age beneath  the  cloud !  And  with  those  mournful 
recollections,  did  no  pang  of  compunction  mingle  ? 
Can  affection  always  say,  when  it  lays  its  idol  in  the 
tomb,  that  there  is  on  Memory's  tablet  no  trace  that 


ORIANA.  ^'7' 

she  would  fain  expunge  1-no  act  of  tenderness  un- 
returned]— no  debt  of  gratitude  uncancelled ?— no 
kind  word  left  unspoken  ?-no  heaven-prompted 
intention  unfulfilled  ]  Amid  that  pensive  tram,  was 
there  no  unhappy  heart,  where  the  thorn  of  con- 
science must  rankle,  after  the  wound  of  God's  visita- 
tion had  healed  ? 

Others  too  might  have  wandered  there,  irom  whose 
bosoms  the  corrosion  of  sorrow  had  been  easily  ef- 
faced, whose  determination  to  "  go  down  to  the  grave, 
to  the  lost  one,  mourning,"  had  yielded  to  the  eager 
pursuit  of  other  pleasures,— whose  once  desolated 
shrine  resounded  with  the  worship  of  some  new 
image,  proving  that  there  is  nothing  unchangeable 
in  man,  save  his  tendency  to  change. 

Yet  of  whatever  nature  were  the  reflections  of  the 
train   that  thus  circled  the  "  cold  turf-altar  of  the 
dead,"  they  were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a 
funeral  procession.     Next  to  the  bier,  walked  those 
whom  the  rite  of  adoption  had  made  parents,  the 
settled   D-rief  of  whose  countenances  seemed  as  if 
deploring   the   loss  of   a  first-born.     Partaking  in 
their  sorrow,  and  desirous  of  paying  the  last  offices 
of  respect  to  the  departed,  almost  the  whole  tribe 
had  gathered,  walking  two  and  two,  with  solemn  and 
dejected  countenances.     There  was  something  un- 
speakably affecting:  in  the  mourning  of  that  heart- 
broken   mce   for   the   fallen   stranger.     Strangers 
themselves,  in  the  land  that  was  once  their  own,  their 
humbled  spirits  seemed  in  unison  with  the  sad  scene, 


178  ORIANA. 

and  with  the  open  grave.  Indeed,  every  heart  seem- 
ed touched  with  peculiar  sympathy,  at  this  burial, 
in  foreign  earth,  of  the  lone, — the  young  and  the 
beautiful, — 

"By  strangers  honor'il,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd." 

At  the  close  of  the  obsequies,  the  clergyman  drew 
near  to  the  aged  warrior.  His  few  silver  locks  waved  in 
the  light  summer  breeze,  and  his  eyes,  intently  fixed 
upon  the  new-covered  grave,  were  red  and  tearless. 
Roused  by  affectionate  v/ords,  he  replied,  but  ab- 
stractedly, and  as  speaking  to  himself, — "  She  told 
us  of  the  resurrection,  and  of  Him  who  is  the  truth 
and  the  life."  Martha,  taking  with  reverence  the 
hand  that  was  offered  her,  placed  a  small  packet  in 
it,  and  said — "  She  left  this  for  you  ;  and  she  bless- 
ed you,  when  the  cold  dew  stood  on  her  forehead, 
like  rain-drops." 

After  his  return  to  his  habitation,  the  clergyman 
perused  with  deep  interest,  the  parting  bequest  of 
Oriana. 

"  You  have  expressed  a  wish,  my  dear  and  reve- 
rend benefactor,  for  a  more  minute  detail  of  my  his- 
tory, than  my  weakness  has  permitted  me  orally  to 
impart.  I  will,  therefore,  recount  with  my  pen  some 
of  its  particulars,  to  meet  your  eye  when  my  own 
shall  be  closed  in  dust.  It  will  then  be  time  to  lift 
the  veil  of  mystery,  when  I  can  no  longer  be  pained 
by  the  curiosity  of  strangers,  nor  affected  by  their 
opinion. 

"  You,  Sir,  have  without  suspicion  reposed  confi- 


ORIANA.  1  '^^ 

dcnce  in  the  imperfect  narrative  which  has  been  in- 
trusted to  you.  You  have  not,  as  the  cold-hearted 
multitude  might  have  done,  wounded  with  the  cruel- 
ty of  distrust,  a  heart  long  sinking  beneath  the  visi- 
tation of  God.  You  will  not  now  believe,  that  a 
spirit  nurtured  in  the  love  of  truth,  could  use  subter- 
fuge or  guile,  when  on  the  threshold  of  His  presence, 
who  '  hateth  every  false  way.' 

"  I  am  a  native  of  England,  and  of  respectable, 
though  not  wealthy  parentage.     Among  my  first, 
and  most  agonizing  remembrances,  is  the  death  of 
my  father.    Our  residence  was  in  a  neat  and  retired 
cottage,  where  my  mother  solaced  her  early  widow- 
hood, by  an  entire  devotion  to  my  welfare.     Her 
education  had  been  superior  to  what  is  usually  found 
among  those  of  our  rank,  and  she  led  me  almost  in 
infancy  to  prize  intellectual  pleasures.  I  can  scarce- 
ly imagine  a  lot,  more  congenial  with  happiness  than 
our  own.    Our  income  was  adequate  to  every  want, 
and  that  industry  which  preserved  health,  gave  us 
also  the  power  of  administering  to  the  necessities 
of  others.     When  my  daily  tasks  were  accomplish- 
ed, my  recreations  were  to  tend  my  flowers,  to  read, 
converse,  or  walk  with  my  mother,  in  the  romantic 
country  that  surrounded  us,  or  to  join  my  voice  to 
the  birds  that  warbled  near  our  habitation.  To  men- 
tal cultivation,   my   affectionate   parent   added  the 
most  assiduous  religious  instruction,  and  to  the  bless- 
ing of  the  Holy  Spirit  on  her  guidance,  do  I  impute 
it,'that  the  foundation  of  my  faith  was  so  strongly 
laid,  as  not  to  fail  me  now,  in  my  hour  of  trial. 


=s=^ 


160  ORIAA'A. 

"Forgive  me,  for  lingering  a  little  longer,  around 
this  bower  of  my  happiness.     It  was  the  Eden  of 
my  existence.     It  was  also  the  birth-place  of  my 
love.    Here  the  strongest  ardor  of  a  young  and  sus- 
ceptible heart  awoke,  and  was  reciprocated.     The 
ruling  sentiment  of  my  nature,  and  one  of  its  ear- 
liest developments,  was  a  desire   for   knowledge. 
To  this,  our  restricted   resources  interposed  a  bar- 
rier.    It  was  the  only  alloy  of  my  felicity.     How 
could  I  therefore  but  highly  appreciate  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a   man  of  refined  education, — of  splendid 
talents,  well  balanced  by  correspondent  attainments 
and   sublimated  piety  1     He  brought  me  books  to 
which  I  had  no  other  means  of  access,  and  by  his 
eloquent  explanations  made  the  dim  ages  of  remote 
history,  vivid  and  alluring.     He  took  pleasure  in 
guiding  my  mind  through  the  paths  of  science  and 
literature,  with  which  his  own  was  familiar, — in  in- 
troducing it  to  unbounded  regions  of  thought,  and  in 
tracing  its  delighted  astonishment,  when  new  truths 
burst  upon  it  in  beauty,  and  in  power.     To  me,  he 
seemed  as  a  benevolent  and  glorious  spirit,  striving 
to  elevate  an  inferior  being  to  his  own  high  intellec- 
tual sphere.     So  strong  and  pervading  was  this  en- 
thusiasm, that  I  did  not  imagine  that  the  youth  and 
grace  of  my  instructor  had  any  agency  in  creating 
It.     Love  stole  upon  my  simplicity  in  the  guise  of 
wisdom,  and  I  was  his  disciple  while  I  believed  my- 
self only  the  worshipper  of  Minerva.     It  was  also 
evident,  that  he  who  had  opened  to  my  enraptured 


ORIANA.  ISl 

view,  the  world  of  letters,  loved  the  mind  which  he 
had  himself  adorned  ;  like  him,  of  ancient  fable,  who, 
imparting  fire  from  heaven  to  an  inert  mass,  became 

its  adorer. 

"  Authorized  by  maternal  sanction,  in  cherishing 
this  new  affection,  every  day  heightened  its  ardor, 
and  every  night  I  thanked  my  father  in  heaven,  with 
exuberant  gratitude,  for  the  fullness  of  my  joy.  In 
the  enthusiasm  of  my  attachment,  I  regretted  that 
the  rank  and  fortune  of  my  lover  were  so  superior 
to  my  own,  and  wished  for  the  power  of  proving  by 
some  severe  sacrifice  the  disinterested  spirit  of  my 
affection. 

"  But  clouds  were  impending  over  the  brightened 
scene.  My  mother's  health  declined.  It  was  in  vain 
that  she  strove  to  conceal  from  me  the  symptoms 
of  that  insidious  and  fatal  disease  which  is  now  lead- 
ing her  daughter  to  the  tomb.  I  watched  in  agony 
the  struggles  of  a  pure  spirit,  disengaging  itself 
from  clay.  Even  now,  I  think  I  hear  her  sweet, 
broken  voice,  saying  to  me, — '  I  leave  you,  not  to 
the  bitterness  of  orphanage,  but  to  the  protection  of 
one  who  loves,  and  is  beloved  by,  the  orphan's  God.' 
The  stream  of  life  flowed  on  so  placidly,  when  about 
to  join  the  ocean  of  Eternity,  that  we  dreaded  by 
any  turbid  mixture  of  earth  to  disturb  its  purity,  or 
interrupt  its  repose.  We  therefore  forbore  to  men- 
tion to  her  the  opposition  to  our  union,  which  had 
arisen  on  the  part  of  his  father,  whose  pride  repelled 
the  thought  of  such  alliance  with  a  cottager.     Find- 

Q 


iS2  ORIANA. 

ing,  in  this  case,  a  departure  from  the  implicit  obe 
dience  that  he  had  heretofore  received,  he  resorted 
to  threats,  and  to  unkindness.  His  sudden  death, 
which  took  place  just  before  that  of  my  mother,  con- 
firmed the  truth  of  his  menaces,  by  disinheritance. 
To  me,  this  patrimonial  exclusion  scarcely  bore  a 
feature  of  adversity ;  since  it  permitted  the  proof 
that  mercenary  motives  had  no  agency  in  my  love. 
Even  the  intelligence  at  which  I  should  once  have 
shuddered,  that  his  only  resource  was  to  join  +he 
army  under  Lord  Cornwallis,  then  in  America,  was 
received  with  scarcely  a  pang ;  for  I  felt  that  my  oft- 
repeated  wis^,  to  evince  the  strength  of  my  affection 
by  the  sacrifices  it  was  capable  of  enduring,  might 
now  be  fulfilled. 

"The  holy  service  of  the  altar,  my  sainted  mo- 
ther's obsequies,  and  the  farewell  to  our  cottage,  fol- 
lowed each  other  in  such  rapid  succession,  that,  lost 
in  a  bewildering  dream,  I  seemed  incapable  of  fully 
realizing  either.  Yet  methought,  our  peaceful  re- 
treat had  never  worn  so  many  charms,  as  at  the 
moment  of  quitting  it  for  ever.  Its  roses  and  wood- 
bines displayed  all  their  freshness,  breathed  all  their 
frag-rance.  The  surrounding  lawn  was  like  the 
richest  velvet,  and  the  birds  whom  I  had  loved  as 
companions,  poured  from  the  verdant  branches,  mu- 
sic too  joyous  for  a  parting  strain.  The  records  of 
childhood's  deep  happiness  were  still  vivid  wherever 
1  turned,  for  my  seventeenth  birth-day  had  scarcely 
past.     Every  path,  where  a  departed  mother's  step 


C;Q 


ORIAXA.  Ibo 

had  trod, — every  haunt  which  her  taste  had  decor- 
ated,— every  vine  that  her  hand  had  trained,  spoke 
to  me  in  the  voioe  of  deep,  tender,  hngering  affec- 
tion. Once,  I  should  have  exclaimed,  with  a  hurst 
of  bitter  weeping, — '  And  m.ust  I  leave  thee.  Pa- 
radise  V  But  I  went  without  a  tear.  He,  who  was 
all  the  world  to  me,  was  by  my  side.  His  arm  sup- 
ported me,  and  methought  all  paths  were  alike,  and 
every  thorn  pointless,  to  one  thus  sustained.  Me- 
thouorht,  I  could  be  a  homeless  wanderer  over  earth's 
face,  and  murmur  not. 

"  Iwill  not  detain  you,  reverend  sir,  with  the  de- 
tails of  our  voyage,  or  the  privations  of  a  life  spent 
in  camps.  Like  the  servitude  of  the  patriarch,  whose 
seven  years  were  measured  by  love,  they  seemed  to 
me  as  nothin^r.  Yet  during^  the  conflicts  which  oc- 
curred  in  fields  of  blood,  my  wretchedness  was  in- 
expressible, it  was  then  that,  imploring  protection 
for  my  husband,  I  first  understood  what  is  meant 
by  the  '  agony  of  prayer.'  He  was  ambitious  to  stand 
foremost  in  the  ranks  of  danger,  and  his  valor  gain- 
ed him  promotion.  When  called  by  his  duty  to  posts 
of  peril,  and  I  besought  him  to  be  careful  of  life, 
for  my  sake,  he  would  reply  with  that  firm  piety 
which  ever  characterized  him  ;  '  Is  not  my  protector 
the  God  of  battles  1  is  he  not,  also,  the  God  of  the 
widow  V 

"  But  from  the  scenery  of  war,  I  have  ever  shrunk. 
And  now  my  trembling  hand  and  fluttering  heart 
admonish  me  to  be  brief.    Seldom  has  one  who  pos- 


184  ORIAiVA 

sessed  such  a  native  aversion  to  all  the  varieties  of 
strife,  such  an  instinctive  horror  at  the  effusion  of 
blood,  been  appointed  to  share  the  fortunes  of  war. 
During  the  investment  of  Yorktown,  in  the  autumn 
of  1781,  my  husband  was  almost  constantly  divided 
from,  me,  by  the  duties  of  his  station.  Even  the 
minutest  scenes  of  that  eventful  period,  are  graven 
on  my  memory,  as  with  the  point  of  a  diamond, 

"  The  affairs  of  the  English  army,  every  day  as- 
sumed a  more  gloomy  and  ominous  aspect.  The 
ships  of  France,  anchored  at  the  mouth  of  York 
river,  prevented  our  receiving  supplies  through  that 
channel,  or  aid  from  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who,  in 
New- York,  anxiously  awaited  our  destiny.  Despair 
sat  on  the  countenance  of  Cornwallis  ;  and  Tarlqton, 
who  had  hitherto  poured  his  intrepid  soul  into  the 
enterprise,  was  suffering  dejection  from  a  painful 
wound.  The  fortifications  of  the  allied  French  and 
Americans  were  every  day  brought  nearer  to  us. 
They  spread  themselves  in  the  form  of  a  crescent, 
cutting  off  our  communication  with  the  adjacent 
country.  The  last  night  of  my  residence  in  that 
fatal  spot,  I  was  peculiarly  distressed  with  fears  for 
my  sole  earthly  stay.  I  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the 
house,  to  take  an  unbroken  view  of  that  glorious 
firmament,  which  had  so  often  led  my  soul  from  the 
woes  of  earth,  to  contemplations  of  heaven.  But  the 
thunder  of  a  terrible  cannonade  riveted  my  attention 
to  terrestrial  scenes.  The  whole  peninsula  seemed 
to  tremble,  beneath  the  en^n'ncry  of  war.     Bombs, 


ORIANA.  1S5 

from  the  batteries  of  both  armies,  were  continually 
crossing  each  other's  path.  Like  meteors,  their 
luminous  trains  traversed  the  skies,  with  awful  sub- 
limity.— Sometimes,  I  heard  a  sound,  as  of  the 
hissing  of  a  thousand  serpents,  when  in  their  fall 
they  excavated  the  earth,  and  rent  in  atoms  what- 
ever opposed  them.  Once,  I  saw  severed  and  man- 
gled limbs  from  the  British  armaments  thrown  high 
into  the  air,  by  their  explosion.  I  fancied  a  groan 
of  agony  in  the  voice  that  I  loved,  and  listened  till 
sensation  forsook  me. 

Suddenly  a  column  of  flame  arose  from  the  bo- 
som of  the  river.  It  was  of  ineffable  brightness. 
Methought,  even  the  waters  fed  it,  and  it  spread 
wider,  and  ascended  higher  and  higher,  as  if  doubt- 
ful whether  first  to  enfold  the  earth,  or  the  heavens. 
Two  smaller  furnaces  burst  forth  near  it,  breathing, 
like  their  terrible  parent,  intense  fires,  beautiful  and 
dreadful.  I  gazed,  till  the  waters  glowed  in  one  daz- 
zling expanse,  and  I  knew  not  but  the  Almighty,  in 
wrath  at  the  wickedness  of  man,  was  about  to  kindle 
around  him  an  ocean  of  flame,  as  he  once  whelmed 
him  with  a  delude  of  waters. 

"  But  nothing  could  hush  the  incessant  roar  of 
those  engines  of  death.  I  wondered  if  man  would 
continue  to  pursue  his  brother,  with  unrelenting  ha- 
tred, even  to  the  conflagration  of  the  day  of  doom  ? 
When  the  influence  of  an  excited  imagination  had 
subsided,  I  discovered  that  this  splendid  and  awful 

pageant  was  the  burnins^  of  the  Charon,  one  of  our 

Q2 


166  ORIANA. 

lofty  ships  of  war,  with  two  smaller  vessels,  at  an- 
chor in  the  river,  which  had  taken  fire  from  the 
French  battery. 

"  Chilled  by  the  dampness  of  the  night  air,  I  de- 
scended from  my  post  ofobservation,  and  threw  my- 
self on  my  sleepless  couch.  My  health  had  long  suf- 
fered for  want  of  exercise  in  the  open  air,  from  which 
I  was  precluded  by  the  impossibility  of  having  the 
company  and  protection  of  my  husband.  At  the 
close  of  the  ensuing  day,  he  was  dismissed  for  a 
time  from  military  duty,  and  entered  his  apartmentc 
It  was  on  Sunday, — October  14th, — misery  has 
stamped  the  date  indelibly  on  my  soul.  He  proposed 
a  walk,  to  which  I  gladly  assented,  and  mentioned 
as  the  safest  means  of  prolonging  if  to  any  consider- 
able length,  in  streets  thronged  with  soldiers,  a  wish 
that  I  should  array  myself  in  a  suit  of  his  military 
apparel.  Yielding  to  his  reasoning,  I  assumed  this 
disguise,  and  we  pressed  onward,  admiring  the  au- 
tumn scenery,  which  in  the  American  climate  is  so 
peculiarly  brilliant.  We  indulged  in  discourse,  which 
selected  from  the  past  the  most  soothing  recollec- 
tions, and  gilded  the  future  with  the  illusions  of  hope. 
We  followed  the  course  of  the  fortifications,  until 
unconsciously  we  had  passed  our  last  redoubt.  Sud- 
denly, we  heard  the  trampling  of  many  feet.  The 
uniform  of  the  French  and  Americans  was  the  next 
moment  visible  through  the  trees  that  skirted  our 
path.  My  husband  had  scarcely  time  to  draw  his 
sword,  Pre  a  volley  of  shot  wns  poured  upon  us-  A 


ORIANA.  1S7 

bullet  pierced  his  breast,  and  he  fell  lifeless  by  my 
side.  I  fell  with  him,  senseless  as  himself.  I  reco- 
vered from  my  swoon,  only  to  mourn  that  I  sur- 
vived, and  to  feel  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death. 

"  Sometimes  I  imagined  that  he  returned  the  pres- 
sure of  my  hand ;  but  it  was  only  the  trickling  of 
his  blood  through  my  own.  Again,  I  fancied  that 
he  sighed  ;  but  it  was  the  breath  of  the  hollow  wind 
through  the  reeds  where  his  head  lay.  I  heard  the 
horrible  uproar  of  the  war,  in  the  neighboring  re- 
doubts,— the  roar  of  cannon, — the  clash  of  arms, — 
the  cry  of  the  combatants.  I  knew  that  the  enemy 
were  near.  But  I  attempted  not  to  fly.  What  had 
I  to  lose  ? — What  more  remained  to  me  1 — That  one 
dead  body,  was  my  all  the  world. — 1  fell  upon  it. — 
1  supplicated  to  be  made  like  unto  it. 

"  A  band  of  men  rushed  by,  speaking  in  uncouth 
tones.  I  knew  that  they  were  savages.  Then  I 
wished  to  escape,  to  hide  myself.  Yet,  but  a  moment 
before,  like  him  who  despaired  for  his  smitten  gourd, 
I  had  exclaimed, — '  Take  now  away  my  life,  I  pray 
thee ;  for  it  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live.'  Sud- 
denly they  discovered,  and  made  me  their  captive. 
I  expected  to  have  been  borne  to  the  American  camp. 
But  they  continued  to  travel  throughout  the  night. 
From  their  conversation  I  learned  that  two  redoubts 
had  been  stormed  by  the  French  and  Americans, 
with  desperate  valor.  This  was  the  daring  action, 
in  which  La  Fayette  led  on  the  Americans,  and  De 
Viomenil  the  French,  and  whicli   preceded  but  four 


L 


188  ORIANA. 

days  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis.  The  party  by 
v,-hom  my  husband  had  fallen,  was  the  advance-guard, 
under  Colonel  Hamilton,  and  I  was  the  prisoner  of 
a  small  number  of  Indians,  headed  by  a  Delaware 
chief.  It  seemed  that  they  were  connected  with 
some  embassy  sent  to  discover  the  state  of  affairs  at 
Yorktown,  and  were  not  personally  engaged  in  this 
rencounter.  Thus  was  I  at  the  mercy  of  beings,  at 
whom  I  had  ever  shuddered  as  the  most  savage  of 
mankind.  I  followed  them  as  we  roam  in  some  ter- 
rible dream,  when  motion  is  without  volition,  and 
consciousness  is  misery.  Stupified  with  grief,  my 
mind  was  for  many  days  inadequate  to  the  full  sense 
of  its  wretchedness.  My  captors,  so  far  from  testi- 
fying the  brutality  that  I  had  feared,  were  attentive 
to  my  wants,  and,  in  some  degree,  studious  of  my 
comfort.  I  exerted  myself  to  endure  hardship  as 
unshrinkingly  as  possible,  dreading  lest  they  should 
suspect  my  disguise  ;  but  they  referred  my  compar- 
ative weakness  to  the  effects  of  a  civilization  which 
they  decried,  and  occasionally  satirized  the  effemi- 
nacy of  British  officers. 

"  When  I  began  to  arouse  from  the  stupor  which 
the  whelming  torrent  of  my  afflictions  had  caused, 
a  dreadful  apprehension  took  possession  of  my  mind. 
I  imagined  that  they  were  guarding  my  life  with  such 
care,  in  order  to  make  me  the  victim  of  their  savage 
torture.  This  terror  obtained  predominance  over 
my  o-rief.  When  I  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the  forests, 
wrapped  closely  in  my  blanket,  and  surrounded  by 


ORIANA.  1S9 

those  rugged  and  red-browed  warriors,  though 
wearied  to  exhaustion  with  the  travel  of  the  day,  no 
slumber  visited  me.  Plans  of  escape  occupied  every 
night ;  yet  every  day  revealed  their  impracticability. 
During  this  season  of  excitement,  I  was  scarcely 
sensible  of  fatigue.  My  strength  more  than  equalled 
the  labor  imposed ;  so  much  is  the  mind  able  to  rule 
its  terrestrial  companion. 

"  I  observed  that  my  captors,  in  their  journey, 
avoided  the  more  populous  settlements,  and  seemed 
to  regard  the  whites  either  as  intruders,  or  doubtful 
friends.     On  their  arrival  at  a  large  town  in  Penn- 
sylvania, they  directed  me  to  pass  through  the  sub- 
urbs with  a  guard  of  four  men,  evidently  fearing 
that  some  facility  of  escape  might  be  afforded,  if  I 
attracted  the  notice  of  strangers.    Those  who  enter- 
ed the  town,  rejoined  us  with  demonstrations  of  ex- 
travagant joy,  bringing  news  that  the  surrender  of 
Cornwallis  had  taken  place  on  the  18th  of  October, 
and  that  peace  was  confidently  expected.     Pressing 
on  with  unusual  rapidity,  they  prepared  to  pass  the 
night  within  the  borders  of  an  extensive  forest.  Here 
they  kindled  a  fire,  and  conversed  long  in  their  own 
.anguage.     Their  gestures  became  violent,  and  their 
eyes  were  often  bent  on  me,  with  an  expression  of 
savage  fierceness. 

"  At  length,  louder  words,  as  of  conflict,  arose 
between  the  Mohegans  and  Delawares,  of  which  the 
company  was  composed.  I  believed  that  the  strife 
was  respecting  the  question  of  torture,  and  that  my 


I 


190  ORIANA. 

hour  had  come.  An  aged  warrior  of  the  ibrmer  tribe 
sat  sohtary,  and  taking  no  part  in  the  contest,  but 
observing  its  progress  with  extreme  attention.  He 
avoided  the  spirituous  hquors,  with  which  the  others 
were  becoming  inflamed,  as  if  reserving  himself  t"or 
action  in  some  critical  juncture.  I  thought  that  he 
had  heretofore  regarded  me  with  pitying  eyes,  and  I 
said  mentally,  Is  it  possible  that  heaven  will  raise  me 
up  a  friend,  among  savages  ?  I  remembered  that  he 
was  called  Arrowhamet,  and  was  respected  for 
courage  and  wisdom.  When  the  conflict  grew  vio- 
lent, he  arose  and  approached  the  Delaware  chief- 
tain. During  their  conversation,  which  was  grave 
and  earnest,  both  parties  preserved  silence.  When 
they  separated,  the  Delawares  murmured  hoarsely. 
But  their  chief  silenced  them  with  the  simple  argu- 
ment,— 

"  '  Arrowhamet  is  old. — He  hath  fought  bravely. 
His  temples  are  white  as  the  snows  of  the  Allegha- 
ny.— Young  men  must  submit  to  the  warrior  who 
weareth  the  crown  of  time.' 

"  They  commenced  their  war-dance,  and  in  its 
maddening  excitement,  and  the  fumes  of  intoxication, 
merged  the  chagrin  of  their  disappointment.  It  was 
past  midnight,  ere  they  lay  down  to  sleep.  When 
all  around  was  silent,  Arrowhamet  spoke  in  a  low 
tone.  He  urged  me  to  compose  my  mind,  and  be 
at  rest,  assuring  m.e  that  the  danger  was  past.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  And  repose.  1  saw  also 
that  my  aged  guardian  slept  not.     His  eyes  were 


ORIANA.  191 

raised  upward,  as  if  contemplating  the  Maker  of  that 
majestic  arch,  where  a  few  stars  faintly  beamed. 
Can  it  be,  said  I  silently,  that  an  Indian  thinks  of 
God  ?  Ah  !  I  knew  not  then,  of  what  deep  devotion 
their  souls  were  susceptible. 

"  Judo-e,  with  what  fearful  consternation,  I  was 
startled  from  my  reverie,  by  hearing  Arrowhamet 
pronounce  the  name  of  Oriana !  Breathless  with 
emotion,  I  was  unable  to  reply,  and  he  proceeded, — 

"'Wherefore  fearest  thou  to  sleep? — Thou  art 
redeemed  from  death. — No  evil  shall  touch  thee. — 
Believe  what  the  old  warrior  hath  spoken,  and  rest 
in  peace.' 

"  '  Why  do  you  call  me  Oriana  V  T  inquired,  trem- 
bling with  astonishment. 

"  '  Didst  thou  think  that  the  eye  of  Arrowhamet 
was  too  dim  to  read  thy  brow?— his  heart  so  old,  as 
to  forget  the  hand  that  had  given  him  bread  V 

"  '  Am  I  then  known  to  your  companions,  also?' 
I  asked. 

"  «  No  thought  save  mine  hath  comprehended  thee. 
To  all  other  eyes,  thy  disguise  is  truth.  My  breast 
shall  be  as  the  bars  of  the  grave  to  my  secret.' 

"  «  How  have  you  obtained  this  knowledge  ?  and 
what  words  did  you  speak  about  my  having  given 

you  food?' 

"  « I  knew  that  face,'  he  answered  tenderly, '  when 
the  torches  first  gleamed  upon  it,  amid  the  shouts 
of  war.  It  was  deadly  pale.  But  how  could  I  for- 
get the  face  of  her,  that  had  given  me  bread  ?  Thou 


— ■%'- 


192  ORIANA. 

sayest,  when  have  I  fed  thee  ?  So  will  the  righteous 
ask  of  their  Lord,  at  the  last  day.  Thou  writest  the 
traces  of  thy  bounty  in  tlie  sand.  But  the  famished 
prisoner  graveth  them  in  the  rock  for  ever.  I  was 
with  the  men  of  Colonel  Buford,  on  the  waters  of 
the  Santee  river,  when  out  of  four  hundred,  scarcely 
a  fv)urth  part  escaped  the  sword  of  Tarleton.  I  saw 
an  hundred  hands  of  brave  men  raised  to  implore 
mercy.  The  next  moment  they  were  stricken  off 
by  the  sabres  of  the  horsemen  who  trampled  on  their 
bodies.  But  why  tell  I  thee  tales  of  blood,  whose 
heart  is  as  tender  as  that  of  the  weaned  infant?  I 
have  said,  that  a  few  were  saved.  With  them,  I 
went  into  captivity.  Some  pined  away,  and  died  in 
their  sorrows.  Seventeen  moons  have  since  looked 
upon  their  graves.  Rememberest  thou  an  old  Indian, 
who  once  leaned  against  a  tree,  near  thy  tent  ?  He 
.eaned  there,  because  he  was  weak,  and  his  flesh 
wasted  by  famine.  He  asked  not  for  bread.  Yet 
ihou  savest  it  to  him.  And  so,  thou  remember- 
est  him  not  ? — Well ! — Thou  canst  never  forget 
the  youth  who  stood  beside  thee,  in  the  door  of  thy 
tent.  His  voice  was  like  the  flutes  of  his  own  coun- 
try, when  he  said,  Oriana.  But  how  did  I  see  him 
next?  His  beautiful  forehead  was  cold,  and  his 
noble  breast  red  with  his  own  blood.  I  saw  thee, 
also.  Thou  wert  as  one  dead.  But  I  could  not  bo 
mistaken  in  the  hand  that  had  given  me  bread.  I 
determined  to  take  thee  from  my  people,  that  I  might 
feed  thee  when  thou  didst  hunger,  and  be  thy  staff 


ORIANA.  193 

when  thou  wert  weary.     For  this  have  I  labored. 
My  desire  is  accomplished,  and  thou  art  safe  from 

harm.' 

"  'Was  I  then  right,  in  supposing  myself  desti^ned 

to  the  torture  V 

«  *  The  chief  had  promised  that  this  night,  his  peo- 
ple should  avenge  on  thee,  their  young  men,  who 
had  been  slain  in  battle.  The  Delawares  were  bent 
upon  thy  death.  Their  eyes  were  fierce,  and  their 
brows  wrathful,  that  I  rescued  thee.  It  was  with 
difficulty,  that  thou  wert  delivered.  The  Indian  is 
taught  to  submit  to  the  hoary  head.  But  they  con- 
tinually  replied,—'  Our  mightiest  have  fallen  before 
the  warriors  of  his  country.  Two  sons  of  our  Sa- 
chem were  cut  in  pieces  by  their  swords.  The  blood 
of  the  brave  cries  for  vengeance.  If  it  is  not  ap- 
peased by  the  death  of  this  man,  ere  the  rising  of 
the  dawn,   will   not  their  souls  frown  on  us   for 

ever?'" 

"  '  But  how  were  you  able  to  overrule  their  pur- 
pose?'— Hesitating  for  a  moment,  he  replied, — 

"  '  The  natives  of  this  country  have  a  custom,  of 

which  thou  art  ignorant.     He  who  is  deprived  of  a 

near  relative,  in  battle,  or  by  disease,  is  permitted  to 

fill  the  void,  from  among  the  prisoners  of  war,  or 

the  victims  of  torture.     This  is  the  rite  of  adoption. 

It  is  held  sacred  among  us  all.  It  has  given  freedom 

to  the  captive,  when  the  flame  was  scorching  his 

vitals.     Without  the  force  of  this  claim,  I  could  not 

have  saved  thee.     Long  was  the  footstep  of  Death 

nearer  to  thee  than  mine.' 

R 


194  ORIANA. 

"  Pausing,  he"  added,  in  a  tone  of  great  tender- 
ness,— 

"  '  I  had  once  a  daughter. — An  only  one,  as  the 
apple  of  mine  eye.  But  she  faded.  She  went  down 
to  the  grave,  while  she  was  blossoming  into  woman- 
hood.' 

"  There  was  long  silence.  Afterwards,  I  express- 
ed my  gratitude  to  my  deliverer. 

"  '  Daughter,  rest  in  peace.  I  watch  over  thee. 
I  have  prayed  the  Great  Spirit,  that  I  may  lead  thee 
in  safety  to  my  home,  and  put  thy  hand  into  the 
hand  of  my  wife.  Knowest  thou,  why  she  will  love 
thee  ? — why  the  tears  will  cover  her  face,  when  she 
looketh  upon  thee  ?  Because  thou  wilt  remind  her 
of  the  plant  whose  growth  she  nursed,  whose  blast- 
ing she  bemoaned.  Be  not  angry  at  what  I  say. 
She  had  a  dark  brow,  and  her  garb  was  like  the 
children  of  red  men.  Yet  as  she  went  down  into 
the  dust,  there  was  upon  her  lips  a  smile,  and  in  her 
eye,  a  gentleness  even  like  thine.' 

"  He  ceased,  oppressed  with  emotion.  He  pressed 
his  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  laid  it  upon  the  earth. 
When  he  raised  his  head,  I  saw  that  his  strained 
eyes  were  bright  and  tearless. 

"  '  Acceptest  thou  my  adoption  V  he  asked.  '  Wilt 
thou  bow  thyself,  for  a  time,  to  be  called  the  daugh- 
ter of  old  Arrowhamet  ?  I  have  said,  that  it  need 
be  but  for  a  time.  My  home  is  near  the  shore  of 
the  great  waters.  They  shall  bear  thee  to  thy  peo- 
ple, when  thy  heart  is  sickened  at  the  rude  ways  of 
tlie  sons  of  the  forest.' 


ORIANA.  19-J 

"  I  assured  him  of  my  acceptance,  in  such  terms 
as  an  outcast  might  be  supposed  to  address  to  his 
sole  earthly  benefactor.  Apparently  gratified,  he 
raised  his  loftv  form  erect,  and  stretchins;  his  rig;ht 
hand  toward  heaven,  ratified  with  great  solemnity 
the  covenant  of  adoption. 

"  '  Thou,  whose  way  is  upon  the  winds, — through 
the  deep  waters, — within  the  dark  cloud, — Spirit 
of  Truth ! — before  whom  the  shades  of  our  fathers 
walk  in  fields  of  everlasting  light, — hear, — confrm, 
— bless.^ 

"  He  added  a  few  words  in  his  native  lansruao-e, 
with  the  deep  reverence  of  prayer,  and  then  stretch- 
ing himself  on  the  ground,  in  the  attitude  of  repose, 
said, — 

"  '  It  is  enough. — Go  to  thy  rest,  poor,  tender,  and 
broken  flower.  I  will  pray  thy  God  to  protect  thee. 
Thy  God  is  my  God.  Warriors  call  me  Arrowha 
met,  but  in  my  home  of  peace,  my  name  is  Zachary. 
It  was  given  me,  when  I  bowed  to  the  baptism  of 
Christians.  Thou  v/ilt  no  longer  fear  me,  now  that 
thou  knowest  our  God  is  the  same.' 

"  Lost  in  wonderino;  o-ratitude,  I  made  my  orison 
with  many  tears,  and  sank  into  a  more  refreshing 
slumber  than  had  visited  me  since  my  captivity.  I 
awoke  not,  till  the  sun,  like  a  globe  of  gold,  was 
burnishinii  the  crowns  of  the  king-s  of  the  forest. 

"  During  the  remainder  of  our  journey,  nothing 
worthy  of  narration  occurred.  The  supernatural 
strength  that  had  sustained  me,  gradually  vanished, 
and  I  was  borne  many  days  in  a  litter  on  the  shoul- 


u. 


196  ORIANA. 

ders  of  the  natives.  Soon  the  Delawares  separated 
from  the  Mohegans,  to  return  to  their  own  territory. 
Tn  passing  through  a  populous  town,  I  sold  a  valua- 
ble watch  and  necklace,  the  gifts  of  my  sainted  hus- 
band, in  the  early  and  cloudless  days  of  our  love. 
Their  avails,  like  the  cruse  of  oil,  of  her  whom  the 
prophet  saved,  have  not  yet  failed.  They  will  pro- 
bably suffice  for  my  interment. 

"  My  reception  from  good  Martha,  was  most  sooth- 
ing to  my  lone  heart.  From  that  moment  to  this, 
her  maternal  kindness  has  never  slumbered.  With 
that  tender  care,  so  dear  to  the  wounded,  solitary 
spirit,  she  has  promoted  my  comfort,  and  mitigated 
the  pains  of  my  disease. 

"  At  my  first  admission  to  this  humble  abode,  I 
cherished  the  hope  of  returning  to  England.  But  to 
what  should  I  have  returned  ?  Only  to  the  graves 
of  my  parents.  With  the  disconsolate  and  eloquent 
Logan,  I  might  say, — '  There  runs  not  a  drop  of  my 
blood,  in  the  veins  of  any  living  creature.  Who  is 
there  to  mourn  for  Oriana  ? — Not  one.''  Throuo;hout 
the  whole  range  of  my  native  country,  would  there 
have  been  a  cottage  to  afford  me  shelter,  or  friends 
to  minister  to  me  night  and  day,  like  these  aged  beings? 
"But  with  whatever  attractions  the  land  where  I 
first  drew  breath,  would  sometimes  gleam  upon  my 
exiled  eye,  all  hope  of  again  beholding  it  has  been 
long  extinguished.  The  disease,  to  which  my  early 
youth  evinced  a  predisposition,  and  which  was  pro- 
bably inherited  from  both  my  parents,  soon  reveal- 


ORIAXA.  197 

ed  itself.  Its  progress  was  gradual,  but  constantly 
I  have  been  conscious  of  its  latent  ravacres.  My  re- 
treat,  which  to  most  beholders  misfht  have  seemed 
as  undesirable  as  obscure,  so  accorded  with  my  sub- 
dued feelings,  that  like  the  disciple  upon  the  moun- 
tain of  mystery,  I  have  often  exclaimed, — '  jMasler, 
it  is  good  to  be  here.' 

"  Here,  I  have  learned  to  estimate  a  race,  to  which 
the  world  has  done  immense  injustice.  Once,  I  had 
stigmatized  them  as  the  slaves  of  barbarity.  Yet 
were  they  appointed  to  exhibit  to  my  view,  In  com- 
bination with  strong  intellect,  capabilities  of  invinci- 
ble attachment  and  deathless  gratitude,  which,  how- 
ever  the  civilized  world  may  scorn  in  the  cabin  of 
the  red  man,  she  does  not  often  find  in  the  palaces 
of  kins-s.  Here  I  have  felt  how  vain  is  that  estima- 
tion  in  which  we  hold  the  shades  of  complexion  and 
gradations  of  rank — how  less  than  nothing,  the  tin- 
sel of  wealth,  and  the  pageantry  of  pomp,  when 
'  God  taketh  away  the  soul.' 

"  The  pride,  and  earthly  idolatry  of  my  heart, 
have  been  subdued  by  affliction  ;  and  affliction,  hav- 
ing had  her  perfect  work,  has  terminated  in  peace. 
Often,  during  this  process,  have  I  been  reminded  of 
that  beautiful  passage  of  Dumoulin, — '  Jesus,  in 
going  to  Jerusalem,  was  wont  to  go  through  Betha- 
ny, which  signifies,  tlic  lioiise  of  grief :''  so  must  we 
expect  to  pass  through  tribulation,  and  through  a  vale 
of  tears,  before  we  can  enter  upon  the  peace  of  the 

lieavenly  Jerusalem. 

R2 


198 


ORIANA. 


"  Still,  I  quit«not  this  existence  like  the  ascetic,  for 
whom  it  has  had  no  charms.  Its  opening  was  gild- 
ed with  what  the  world  acknowledges  to  be  happi- 
ness ;  and  its  close  with  that  joy  to  which  she  is  a 
stranger.  For  your  instructions,  your  prayers,  my 
revered  friend,  receive  the  blessings  of  one,  who 
will  henceforth  have  neither  name  nor  memorial 
among  men.  Your  last  kind  office  will  be  to  lay  her 
wasted  frame  where  saints  slumber  ;  may  she  meet 
you  at  their  resurrection  in  light.  Her  parting  re- 
quest is,  that  you  would  remember  with  the  benevo- 
lence of  your  vocation,'  those  who  were  to  her,  pa- 
rents without  the  bonds  of  affinity,  philanthropists 
without  hope  of  applause, — and,  though  bearing  the 
lineaments  of  a  proscribed  and  perishing  race,  will, 
I  trust,  be  admitted  to  a  bright,  inalienable  inherit- 


ance." 


PRAYER. 

How  purely  true,  how  deeply  warm, 

The  inly-breathed  appeal  may  be, 
Though  adoration  wears  no  form, 

In  upraised  hand  or  bended  knee. 
One  Spirit  fills  all  boundless  space. 

No  limit  to  the  when  or  where ; 
And  little  recks  the  time  or  place 

That  leads  the  soul  to  praise  and  prayer. 

Father  above,  Almighty  one. 

Creator,  is  that  worship  vain 
That  hails  each  mountain  as  thy  throne, 

And  finds  a  universal  fane  ? 
When  shining  stars,  or  spangled  sod, 

Call  forth  devotion,  who  shall  dare 
To  blame,  or  tell  me  that  a  God 

Will  never  deign  to  hear  such  prayer  ? 

Oh,  prayer  is  good  when  many  pour 

Their  voices  in  one  solemn  tone  ; 
Conning  their  sacred  lessons  o'er 

Or  yielding  thanks  for  mercies  shown. 
'T  is  good  to  see  the  quiet  train 

Forget  their  worldly  joy  and  care, 
While  loud  response  and  choral  strain 

Reecho  in  the  house  of  prayer. 

But  often  have  I  stood  to  mark 

The  setting  sun  and  closing  flower ; 


200  PRAYER. 

When  silence  and  the  gathering  dark 
Shed  holy  calmness  o'er  the  hour. 

Lone  on  the  hills,  my  soul  confessed 
More  rapt  and  burning  homage  there, 

And  served  the  Maker  it  addressed 
With  stronger  zeal  and  closer  prayer 

When  watching  those  we  love  and  prize. 

Till  all  of  life  and  hope  be  fled ; 
When  we  have  gazed  on  sightless  eyes, 

And  gently  stayed  the  falling  head ; 
Then  what  can  sooth  the  stricken  heart, 

What  solace  overcome  despair ; 
What  earthly  breathing  can  impart 

Such  healing  balm  as  lonely  prayer? 

When  fears  and  perils  thicken  fast, 

And  many  dangers  gather  round  ; 
When  human  aid  is  vain  and  past, 

No  mortal  refuge  to  be  found ; 
Then  can  we  firmly  lean  on  heaven, 

And  gather  strength  to  meet  and  bear  , 
No  matter  where  the  storm  has  driven, 

A  saving  anchor  lives  in  prayer. 

Ob,  God !  how  beautiful  the  thought, 

How  merciful  the  blessed  decree, 
That  gri^ce  can  e'er  be  found  when  sought, 

And  naught  shut  out  the  soul  from  Thee. 
The  cell  may  cramp,  the  fetters  gall, 

The  flame  may  scorch,  the  rack  may  tear 
But  torture-stake,  or  prison- wall, 

Can  be  endured  with  faith  and  prayer. 


EVENING    PRAYER. 

In  desert  wilds,  in  midnig-ht  gloom  ; 

In  grateful  joy,  in  trying  pain  ; 
1   laughing  youth,  or  nigh  the  tomb  ; 

Oh  when  is  prayer  unheard  or  vain  ? 
The  Infinite,  the  King  of  Idngs, 

WiU  never  heed  the  when  or  where  ; 
He  '11  ne'er  reject  a  heart  that  brings 

The  offering  of  fervent  prayer. 


201 


EVENING  PRAk  ^^R,  AT  A  GIRLS'  SCHa)L. 


"Now  ia  thy  youth,  beseec^  of  Him 

Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not-,  , 

That  his  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot ; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thee." 

Bernard  Barton. 


Hush  !  't  is  a  holy  hour — the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 

A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  the  gloom 

And  the  sw^et  stillness,  down  on  fair  young  heads, 

With  all  their  clustering  locks,  untouched  by  care, 

And  bowed,  as  flowers  are  bowed  with  night,  in  prayer 

Gaze  on — 't  is  lovely  ! — Childhood's  lip  and  cheek, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of  thought — 

Gaze — yet  what  seest  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek, 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought? — 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 

What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity ! 


202  EVENING    PRAYER. 

O !  joyous  creatures !  that  will  sink  to  rest, 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done, 

As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest, 
'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun — 

Lift  up  your  hearts !  though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 

Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  the  untroubled  springs 
Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wings 
Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread  ; 

Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mino-ling"  low. 

Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep. 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep. 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower ! 
And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship — therefore  pray  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found  untired, 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain. 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired. 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain  ; 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay. 

And,  oh  !  to  love  through  all  things — therefore  pray ! 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time. 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light, 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight ! 

Earth  will  forsake — O  !  happy  to  have  given 

The  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven. 


DISENCHANTMENT.  203 


r 


DISENCHANTMENT. 

Do  not  ask  roe  why  I  loved  him. 

Love's  cause  is  to  love  unknown ; 
Faithless  as  the  past  has  proved  him, 

Once  his  heart  appeared  mine  own. 
Do  not  say  he  did  not  merit 

All  my  fondness,  all  my  truth  ; 
Those  in  whom  love  dwells  inherit 

Every  dream  that  haunted  youth. 

He  might  not  be  all  I  dreamed  him, 

Noble,  generous,  gifted,  true, 
Not  the  less  I  fondly  deemed  him, 

All  those  flattering  visions  drew. 
All  the  hues  of  old  romances 

By  his  actual  self  grew  dim ; 
Bitterly  I  mock  the  fancies 

That  once  found  their  life  in  him. 

From  the  hour  by  him  enchanted, 

From  the  moment  when  we  met. 
Henceforth  with  one  image  haunted, 

Life  may  never  more  forget. 
All  my  nature  changed — his  beino^ 

Seemed  the  only  source  of  mine, 
Fond  heart,  hadst  thou  no  foreseeing 

Thy  sad  future  to  divine? 

Once,  upon  myself  relying, 

All  I  asked  were  words  and  thought ; 
Many  hearts  to  mine  replying, 

Owned  the  music  that  I  brought. 


204  DISENCHANTMENT. 

Eager,  spiritual,  and  lonely, 
Visions  filled  the  fairy  hour, 

Deep  with  love — though  love  was  only 
Not  a  presence,  but  a  power. 

But  from  that  first  hour  I  met  thee, 

All  caught  actual  life  from  you, 
Alas !  how  can  I  forget  thee, 

Thou  who  madest  the  fancied  true? 
Once  my  wide  world  was  ideal. 

Fair  it  was — ah  !  very  fair  : 
Wherefore  hast  thou  made  it  real  ? 

Wherefore  is  thy  image  there  1 

Ah !  no  more  to  me  is  given 

Fancy's  far  and  fairy  bkth ; 
Chords  upon  my  lute  are  riven, 

Never  more  to  sound  on  earth 
Once,  sweet  music  could  it  borrow 

From  a  look,  a  word,  a  tone ; 
I  could  paint  another's  sorrow — 

Now  I  think  but  of  mine  own. 

Life's  dark  waves  have  lost  the  glitter 

Which  at  morning-tide  they  wore, 
And  the  well  within  is  bitter ; 

Naught  its  sweetness  may  restore : 
For  I  know  how  vainly  given 

Life's  most  precious  things  may  be. 
Love  that  might  have  looked  on  heaven, 

Even  as  it  looked  on  thee. 

Ah,  farewell !— with  that  word  dying,    . 
Hope  and  love  must  perish  too : 


THE  crusader's  RETURN.        205 

For  thy  sake  themselves  denying, 

What  is  truth  with  thee  untrue? 
Farewell ! — 'tis  a  dreary  sentence; 

Like  the  death-doom  of  the  grave, 
May  it  wake  in  thee  repentance, 

Stinging  when  too  late  to  save 


» 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN. 


"  Alas !  the  mother  that  him  bare, 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there, 
In  hia  wan  cheeks  and  sunburnt  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  child."— Marmton. 


Rest,  pilgrim,  rest  '.—thou  'rt  from  the  Syrian  land. 

Thou  'rt  from  the  wild  and  wondrous  east,  I  know 
By  the  long-withered  palm-branch  in  thy  hand, 

And  by  the  darkness  of  thy  sun-burnt  brow. 
Alas !  the  bright,  the  beautiful,  who  part 

So  full  of  hope,  for  that  far  country's  bourne ! 
Alas !  the  weary  and  the  changed  in  hpart, 

And  dimmed  in  aspect,  who  like  thee  return ! 

Thou  'rt  faint— stay,  rest  thee  from  thy  toils  at  last : 

Through  the  high  chestnuts  lightly  plays  the  breeze, 
The  stars  gleam  out,  the  Ave  hour  is  past. 

The  sailor's  hymn  hath  died  along  the  seas. 
Thou  'rt  faint  and  worn— hearest  thou  the  fountain  welling 

By  the  gray  pillars  of  yon  ruined  shrine  ? 
Seest  thou  the  dewy  grapes  before  thee  swelhng? 

—He  that  hath  left  me  trained  that  loaded  vine ! 

S 


206      THE  crusader's  return. 

He  was  a  child  when  thus  the  bower  he  wove, 
(Oh!  hath  a  day  fled  since  his  childhood's  time?) 

That  I  might  sit  and  hear  the  sound  I  love, 

Beneath  its  shade — the  convent's  vesper-chime. 

And  sit  thou  there ! — for  he  was  gentle  ever, 

With  his  glad  voice  he  would  have  welcomed  thee, 

And  brought  fresh  fruits  to  cool  thy  parched  lips'  fever- 
There  in  his  place  thou  'rt  resting — where  is  he  % 

If  I  could  hear  that  laughing  voice  again. 

But  once  again  ! — how  oft  it  wanders  by. 
In  the  still  hours,  like  some  remembered  strain, 

Troubling  the  heart  with  its  wild  melody ! — 
Thou  hast  seen  much,  tired  pilgrim  !  hast  thou  seen 

In  that  far  land,  the  chosen  land  of  yore, 
A  youth — my  Guide — with  the  fiery  mien 

And  the  dark  eye  of  this  Italian  shore  ? 

The  dark,  clear,  lightning  eye  ! — on  heaven  and  earth 

It  smiled — as  if  man  were  not  dust  it  smiled  ! 
The  very  air  seemed  kindling  with  his  mirth, 

And  I — my  heart  grew  young  before  my  chQd ! 
My  blessed  child  ! — I  had  but  him — yet  he 

Filled  all  my  home  even  with  overflowing  joy, 
Sweet  laughter,  and  wild  song,  and  footstep  free — 

Where  is  he  now? — my  pride,  my  flower,  my  boy  ! 

His  sunny  childhood  melted  from  my  sight. 
Like  a  spring  dew-drop — then  his  forehead  wore 

A  prouder  look — his  eye  a  keener  light— 

I  knew  these  woods  might  be  his  world  no  more ! 

He  loved  me — but  he  left  me  ! — thus  they  go 

Whom  we  have  reared,  watched,  blessed,  too  much 
adored ! 


I    MISS    THEE,    MY   MOTHER.  207 

He  heard  the  trumpet  of  the  Red-Cross  blow, 
And  bounded  from  me  with  his  father's  sword ! 

Thou  weepest — I  tremble — thou  hast  seen  the  slain 
Pressing  a  bloody  turf;  the  young  and  fair, 

With  their  pale  beauty  strewing  o'er  the  plain 

Where  hosts  have  met— speak !  answer !  was  he  there? 

Oh  !  hath  his  smile  departed  ?— Could  the  grave 

Shut  o'er  those  bursts  of  bright  and  tameless  glee?— 

No  !  I  shall  yet  behold  his  dark  locks  wave — 

.    That  look  gives  hope— I  knew  it  could  not  be 

Still  weepest  thou,  wand'rer  ?— some  fond  mother's  glance 

O'er  thee,  too,  brooded  in  thine  early  years— 
Thmkest  thou  of  her,  whose  gentle  eye,  perchance, 

Bathed  all  thy  faded  hair  with  parting  tears? 
Speak,  for  thy  tears  disturb  me !— what  art  thou  ? 

Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face,  yet  weeping  on? 
Look  up !— oh !  is  it— that  wan  cheek  and  brow ! — 

Is  it— alas !  yet  joy !— my  son,  my  son ! 


I 


I  MISS  THEE,  MY  MOTHER. 

I  MISS  thee,  my  Mother !     Thy  image  is  still 

The  deepest  impressed  on  my  heart. 
And  the  tablet  so  faithful  in  death  must  be  chill 

Ere  a  hne  of  that  image  depart. 
Thou  wert  torn  from  my  side  when  I  treasured  thee  most— 

When  my  reason  could  measure  thy  worth ; 
When  I  knew  but  too  well  that  the  idol  I  'd  lost 

Could  be  never  replaced  upon  earth. 

1  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  circles  of  joy, 
Where  I  've  mingled  with  rapturous  zest ; 


208  I   MISS    THEE.    MY   MOTHER. 

For  how  slight  is  the  touch  that  will  serve  to  destroy 

All  the  fairy  web  spun  in  my  breast ! 
Some  melody  sweet  may  be  floating  around — 

'T  is  a  ballad  I  learnt  at  thy  knee  ; 
Some  strain  may  be  played,  and  I  shrink  from  the  sound, 

For  my  fingers  oft  woke  it  for  thee. 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother ;  when  young  health  has  fled, 

And  I  sink  in  the  languor  of  pain, 
Where,  where  is  the  arm  that  once  pillowed  my  head, 

And  the  ear  that  once  heard  me  complain? 
Other  hands  may  support,  gentle  accents  may  fall — 

For  the  fond  and  the  true  are  yet  mine  : 
I  've  a  blessing  for  each ;  I  am  grateful  to  all — 

But  whose  care  can  be  soothing  as  tliine  ? 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  summer's  fair  day. 

When  I  rest  in  the  ivy-wreathed  bower, 
When  I  hang  thy  pet  linnet's  cage  high  on  the  spray, 

Or  gaze  on  thy  favorite  flower. 
There  's  the  bright  gravel-path  where  I  played  by  thy  side 

When  time  had  scarce  wrinkled  thy  brow, 
Where  I  carefully  led  thee  with  worshipping  pride 

When  thy  scanty  locks  gathered  the  snow. 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  winter's  long  night : 

I  remember  the  tales  thou  wouldst  tell — 
The  romance  of  wild  fancy,  the  legend  of  fright— 

Oh !  who  could  e'er  tell  them  so  well? 
Thy  corner  is  vacant ;  thy  chair  is  removed : 

It  was  kind  to  take  that  from  my  eye  : 
Yet  relics  are  round  me — the  sacred  and  loved— 

To  call  up  the  pure  sorrow-fed  sigh. 


THE   PARTING    OF    SUMMER.  209 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother  !     Oh,  when  do  I  not? 

Though  I  know  't  was  the  wisdom  of  Heaven 
That  the  deepest  shade  fell  on  my  sunniest  spot, 

And  such  tie  of  devotion  was  riven  ; 
For  when  thou  wert  with  me  my  soul  was  below, 

I  was  chained  to  the  world  I  then  trod ; 
My  affections,  my  thoughts,  were  all  earth-bound ;  but 
now 

They  have  followed  thy  spirit  to  God ! 


THE  PARTING  OF  SUMMER. 

I  Thou  'rt  bearing  hence  thy  roses. 

Glad  summer,  fare  thee  well ! 
Thou  'rt  singing  thy  last  melodies 
In  every  wood  and  dell. 

But  ere  the  golden  sunset. 

Of  thy  latest  lingering  day. 
Oh !  tell  me,  o'er  this  chequered  earth, 

How  hast  thou  passed  away  1 
Brightly,  sweet  Summer !  brightly 

Thine  hours  have  floated  by, 
To  the  joyous  birds  of  the  woodland  boughs, 

The  rangers  of  the  sky. 

And  brightly  in  the  forests, 

To  the  wild  deer  wandering  free  ; 

And  brightly  'midst  the  garden  flowers 
Is  the  happy  murmuring  bee  : 

But  how  to  human  bosoms. 

With  all  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  thoughts  that  make  them  eagle-wings, 

To  pierce  the  unborn  years  1 

S2 


210 


THE    PARTING    OF    SUMMER. 


Sweet  Summer  !  to  the  captive 
Thou  hast  flown  in  burning  dreams 

Of  the  woods,  with  all  their  whispering  leaves, 
And  the  blue  rejoicing  streams ; — 

To  the  wasted  and  the  weary, 

On  the  bed  of  sickness  bound. 
In  swift  delirious  fantasies. 

That  changed  with  every  sound  ; — 

To  the  sailor  on  the  billows. 

In  longings  wild  and  vain. 
For  the  gushing  founts  and  breezy  hills, 

And  the  homes  of  earth  again  ! 

And  unto  me,  glad  Summer  ! 

How  hast  thou  flown  to  me  ? 
My  chainless  footstep  naught  hath  kept 

From  thy  haunts  of  song  and  glee. 

Thou  hast  flown  in  wayward  visions, 

In  memories  of  the  dead — 
In  shadows  from  a  troubled  heart, 

O'er  thy  sunny  pathway  shed  : 

In  brief  and  sudden  strivings 

To  fling  a  weight  aside — 
'Midst  these  thy  melodies  have  ceased, 

And  all  thy  roses  died. 

But  oh  !  thou  gentle  Summer ! 

If  I  greet  thy  flowers  once  more, 
Bring  me  again  the  buoyancy 

Wherewith  my  soul  should  soar  ! 

Give  me  to  hail  thy  sunshine, 

With  song  and  spirit  free  ; 
Or  in  a  purer  air  than  this 

May  that  next  meeting  be  ! 


»  »  ♦  •• 


^  S'% 


4   »  •  'a 


•  < 


«  Reserving  woes  for  age,  their  prime  they  spend,— 
Then  wretched,  hopeless,  in  the  evil  days, 
With  sorrow  to  the  verge  of  life  they  tend, 
Griev'd  with  the  present,— of  the  past  asham'd,— 
They  live  and  are  despised ;  they  die,  nor  more  are  nam'd 

LOWTH 


Where  the  lofty  forests  of  Ohio,  towering  in  un- 
shorn  majesty,  cast  a  solemn  shadow  over  the  deep 
verdure  of  beautiful  and  ample  vales,  a  small  fami- 
ly of  emigrants  were  seen  pursuing  their  solitary 
way.     They  travelled  on  foot,  but  not  with  the  as- 
pect of  mendicants,  though  care  and  suffering  were 
variably  depicted  on  their  countenances.     The  man 
walked  first,  apparently  in  an  unkind,  uncompromi- 
sino-  mood.     The  woman  carried  in  her  arms  an 
infant,  and  aided  the  progress  of  a  feeble  boy,  who 
seemed  sinking  with  exhaustion.  An  eye  accustom- 
ed to  scan  the  never-resting  tide  of  emigration,  might 
discern  that  these  pilgrims  were  inhabitants  of  the 
Eastern  States,  probably  retreating  from  some  spe- 
cies  of  adversity,  to  one  of  those  imaginary  El  Do- 
rados, among  the  shades  of  the  far  West,  where  it 
is  fabled  that^'the  evils  of  mortality  have  found  no 

place. 

James  Harwood,  the  leader  of  that  humble  group, 


212  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

who  claimed  from  him  the  charities  of  husband  and 
of  father,  halted  at  the  report  of  a  musket,  and  while 
he  entered  a  thicket,  to  discover  whence  it  proceeded, 
the  weary  and  sad-hearted  mother  sat  down  upon 
the  grass.  Bitter  were  her  reflections  during  that 
interval  of  rest  amoh^  the  wilds  of  Ohio.  The 
pleasant  New-England  village  from  which  she  had 
just  emigrated,  and  the  peaceful  home  of  her  birth, 
rose  up  to  her  view — where,  but  a  few  years  before, 
she  had  given  her  hand  to  one,  whose  unkind ness 
now  strewed  her  path  with  thorns.  By  constant  and 
endearing  attentions,  he  had  won  her  youthful  love, 
and  the  two  first  years  of  their  union  promised  hap- 
piness* Both  were  industrious  and  affectionate,  and 
the  smiles  of  their  infant  in  his  evening  sports  or 
slumbers,  more  than  repaid  the  Ihhors  of  the  day. 

But  a  change  became  visible.  The  husband  grew 
inattentive  to  his  business,  and  indifferent  to  his  fire- 
side. He  permitted  debts  to  accumulate,  in  spite  of 
the  economy  of  his  wife,  and  became  morose  and 
offended  at  her  remonstrances.  She  strove  to  hide, 
even  from  her  own  heart,  the  vice  that  was  gaining 
the  ascendency  over  him,  and  redoubled  her  exer- 
tions to  render  his  home  agreeable.  But  too  fre- 
quently her  efforts  were  of  no  avail,  or  contemptu- 
ously rejected.  The  death  of  her  beloved  mother, 
and  the  birth  of  a  second  infant,  convinced  her  that 
neither  in  sorrow  nor  in  sickness  could  she  expect 
sympathy  from  him,  to  whom  she  had  given  her 
heart,  in  the  simple  faith  of  confiding  affection.  They 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  213 

became  miserably  poor,  and  the  cause  was  evident 
to  every  observer.  In  this  distress,  a  letter  was  re- 
ceived from  a  brother,  who  had  been  for  several 
years  a  resident  in  Ohio,  mentionmg  that  he  was 
induced  to  remove  further  westward,  and  offering 
them  the  use  of  a  tenement  which  his  family  would 
leave  vacant,  and  a  small  portion  of  cleared  land, 
until  they  might  be  able  to  become  purchasers. 

Poor  Jane  listened  to  this  proposal  with  gratitude. 
She  thouirht  she  saw  in  it  the  salvation  of  her  bus- 
band.    She  believed  that  if  he  were  divided  from  his 
intemperate   companions,    he   would  return  to  his 
early  habits  of  industry  and  virtue.     The  trial  of 
leaving  native  and  endeared  scenes,  from  which  she 
would  once  have  shrunk,  seemed  as  nothing  in  com- 
parison  with  the  prospect  of  his  reformation  and 
returning  happiness.  Yet,  when  all  their  few  effects 
were   converted  into   the  wagon  and  horse  which 
were  to  convey  them  to  a  far  land,  and  the  scant  and 
humble  necessaries  which  were  to  sustain  them  on 
their  way  thither  ;  when  she  took  leave  of  her  bro- 
ther and   sisters,  with  their  households ;  when  she 
shook  hands  with  the  friends  whom  she  had  loved 
from  her  cradle,  and  remembered  that  it  might  be  for 
the  last  time ;  and  when  the  hills  that  encircled  her 
native  villao;e  faded  into  the  faint,  blue  outline  of  the 
horizon,  there  came  over  her  such  a  desolation  of 
spirit,  such  a  foreboding  of  evil,   as  she  had  never 
before  experienced.     She  blamed  herself  for  these 
feelings,  and  repressed  their  indulgence. 


214  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

The  journey  was  slow  and  toilsome  The  autum- 
nal rains  and  the  state  of  the  roads  were  agamst 
them.  The  few  utensils  and  comforts  which  they 
carried  with  them,  were  gradually  abstracted  and 
sold.  The  object  of  this  traffic  could  not  be  doubt- 
ed. The  eifects  were  but  too  visible  in  his  conduct. 
She  reasoned — she  endeavored  to  persuade  him  to  a 
different  course.  But  anger  was  the  only  result. 
When  he  was  not  too  far  stupified  to  comprehend  her 
remarks,  his  deportment  was  exceedingly  overbearing 
and  arbitrary.  He  felt  that  she  had  no  friend  to 
protect  her  from  insolence,  and  was  entirely  in  his 
own  power ;  and  she  was  compelled  to  realize  that 
it  was  a  power  without  generosity,  and  that  there  is 
no  tyranny  so  perfect  as  that  of  a  capricious  and 
alienated  husband. 

As  they  approached  the  close  of  their  distressing 
journey,  the  roads  became  worse,  and  their  horse 
utterly  failed.  He  had  been  but  scantily  provided 
for,  as  the  intemperance  of  his  owner  had  taxed  and 
impoverished  every  thing  for  his  own  support.  Jane 
wept- as  she  looked  upon  the  dying  animal,  and  re- 
membered his  laborious  and  ill -repaid  services. 

The  unfeeling  exclamation  with  which  her  husband 
abandoned  him  to  his  fate,  fell  painfully  upon  her 
heart,  adding  another  proof  of  the  extinction  of  his 
sensibilities,  in  the  loss  of  that  pitying  kindness  for 
the  animal  creation,  which  exerrises  a  silent  and  sal- 
utary guardianship  over  our  higher  and  better  sym- 
pathies. They  were  n  -.w  a;i;  roaching  within  a  short 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  Slo 

distance  of  the  termination  of  their  journey,  and  their 
directions  had  been  very  clear  and  precise.    But  his 
mind  became  so  bewildered  and  his  heart  so  perverse, 
that  he  persisted  in  choosing  by-paths  of  underwood 
and  tangled  weeds,  under  the  pretence  of  seeking  a 
shorter  route.     This  increased  and  prolonged  their 
fatigue;  but  no  entreaty  of  his  wearied  wife  was 
regarded.  Indeed,  so  exasperated  was  he  at  her  ex- 
postulations, that  she  sought  safety  in  silence.    The 
little  boy  of  four  years  old,  whose  constitution  had 
been  feeble  from  his  infancy,  became  so  feverish  and 
distressed,  as  to  be  unable  to  proceed.   The  mother, 
after  in  vain  soliciting  aid  and  compassion  from  her 
husband,  took  him  in  her  arms,  while  the  youngest, 
whom  she  had  previously  carried,  and  who  was  un- 
able to  walk,  clung  to  her  shoulders.  Thus  burdened, 
her  progress  was  tedious  and  painful.    Still  she  was 
enabled^to  go  on;  for  the  strength  that  nerves  a 
mother's  frame,  toiling  for  her  sick  child,  is  from 
God.  She  even  endeavored  to  press  on  more  rapidly 
than  usual,  fearing  that  if  she  fell  behind,  her  hus- 
band would  tear  the  sufferer  from  her  arms,  in  some 
paroxysm  of  his  savage  intemperance. 

Their  road  during  the  day,  though  approaching 
the  small  settlement  where  they  were  to  reside,  lay 
through  a  solitary  part  of  the  country.  The  chil- 
dren were  faint  and  hungry  ;  and  as  the  exhausted 
mother  sat  upon  the  grass,  trying  to  nurse  her  infant, 
she  drew  from  her  bosom  the  last  piece  of  bread,  and 
held  it  to  the  parched  lips  of  the  feeble  child.     But 


^s^^ 


216  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

he  turned  away  his  head,  and  with  a  scarcely  audi- 
ble moan,  asked  for  water.  Feelingly  might  she 
sympathize  in  the  distress  of  the  poor  outcast  from 
the  tent  of  Abraham,  who  laid  her  famishing  son 
among  the  shrubs,  and  sat  down  a  good  way  oif, 
saymg, — "  Let  me  not  see  the  death  of  the  child." 
But  this  Christian  mother  was  not  in  the  desert,  nor 
in  despair.  She  looked  upward  to  Him  who  is  the 
refuge  of  the  forsaken,  and  the  comforter  of  those 
whose  spirits  are  cast  down. 

The  sun  was  drawing  towards  the  west,  as  the 
voice  of  James  Harwood  was  heard,  issuing  from 
the  forest,  attended  by  another  man  with  a  gun,  and 
some  birds  at  his  girdle. 

''Wife,  will  you  get  up  now,  and  come  along? 
We  are  not  a  mile  from  home.  Here  is  John  Wil- 
liams, who  went  from  our  part  of  the  country,  and 
says  he  is  our  next-door  neighbor." 

Jane  received  his  hearty  welcome  with  a  thank- 
fulspirit,  and  rose  to  accompany  them.  The  kind 
neighbor  took  the  sick  boy  in  his  arms,  saying, — 

"  Harwood,  take  the  baby  from  your  wife ;  we  do 
not  let  our  women  bear  all  the  burdens,  here  in 
Ohio." 

James  was  ashamed  to  refuse,  and  reached  his 
hands  towards  the  child.  But,  accustomed  to  his 
neglect  or  unkindness,  it  hid  its  face,  crying,  in  the 
maternal  bosom. 

"  You  sec  how  it  is.  She  makes  the  children  so 
cross,  that  I  never  have  any  comfort  of  them.     She 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  217 

chooses  to  carry  them  herself,  and  always  will  have 
her  own  way  in  everything." 

"You  have  come  to  a  new  settled  country,  friends," 
said  John  Wilhams  ;  "  but  it  is  a  good  country  to  get 
a  living  in.     Crops  of  corn  and  wheat  are  such  as 
I  you  never  saw  in  New-England.     Our  cattle  live 

in  clover,  and  the  cows  give  us  cream  instead  of 
milk.     There  is  plenty  of  game  to  employ  our  lei- 
sure, and  venison  and  wild  turkey  do  not  come  amiss 
now  and  then  on  a  farmer's  table.     Here  is  a  short         \\ 
cut  I  can  show  you,  though  there  is  a  fence  or  two  j| 

to  climb.     James  Harwood,  I  shall  like  well  to  talk  I 

with  you  about  old  times  and  old  friends  down  east.  || 

But  why  don't  you  help  your  wife  over  the  fence  with  1 1 
her  baby  7" 

"  So  I  would,  but  she  is  so  sulky.     She  has  not  i 

spoke  a  word  to  me  all  day.  I  always  say,  let  such  j| 
folks  take  care  of  them.selves  till  their  mad  fit  is  l| 
over."  1 1 

A  cluster  of  log  cabins  now  met  their  view  through 
an  opening  in  the  forest.  They  were  pleasantly 
situated  in  the  midst  of  an  area  of  cultivated  land. 
A  fine  river,  surmounted  by  a  rustic  bridge  of  the 
trunks  of  trees,  cast  a  sparkling  line  through  the 
deep,  unchanged  autumnal  verdure. 

"  Here  we  live,"  said  their  guide,  "  a  hard-work- 
ing, contented  people.  That  is  your  house  which  has 
no  smoke  curling  up  from  the  chimney.  It  may  not 
be  quite  so  genteel  as  some  you  have  left  behind  in 
the  old  states,  but  it  is  about  as  good  as  any  in  the 

T 


'8 


218  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

Pxeighborhood.  I  '11  go  and  call  my  wife  to  welcome 
you  ;  right  glad  will  she  be  to  see  you,  for  she  sets 
great  store  by  folks  from  New-England." 

The  inside  of  a  log  cabin,  to  those  not  habituated 
to  it,  presents  but  a  cheerless  aspect.  The  eye  needs 
time  to  accustom  itself  to  the  rude  walls  and  floors, 
the  absence  of  glass  windows,  and  doors  loosely  hung 
upon  leathern  hinges.  The  exhausted  woman  en- 
tered, and  sank  down  with  her  babe.  There  was 
no  chair  to  receive  her.  In  the  corner  of  the  room 
stood  a  rough  board  table,  and  a  low  frame  resem- 
bling a  bedstead.  Other  furniture  there  was  none. 
Glad,  kind  voices  of  her  own  sex,  recalled  her  from 
her  stupor.  Three  or  four  matrons,  and  several 
blooming  young  faces,  welcomed  her  with  smiles. 
The  warmth  of  reception  in  a  new  colony,  and  the 
substantial  services  by  which  it  is  manifested,  put  to 
shame  the  ceremonious  and  heartless  professions, 
which  in  a  more  artificial  state  of  society  are  digni- 
fied with  the  name  of  friendship. 

As  if  by  magic,  what  had  seemed  almost  a  prison, 
assumed  a  different  aspect,  under  the  ministry  of 
active  benevolence.  A  cheerful  flame  rose  from  the 
ample  fire-place ;  several  chairs  and  a  bench  for 
children  appeared ;  a  bed  with  comfortable  coverings 
concealed  the  shapelessness  of  the  bedstead,  and 
viands  to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers  were 
heaped  upon  the  board.  An  old  lady  held  the  sick 
boy  tenderly  in  her  arms,  who  seemed  to  revive  as 
he  saw  his  mother's  face  brighten ;  and  the  infant, 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  219 

after  a  draught  of  fresh  milk,  fell  into  a  sweet  and 
profound  slumber.  One  by  one  the  neighbors  de- 
parted, that  the  wearied  ones  might  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  repose.  John  Williams,  who  was  the  last 
to  bid  good-night,  lingered  a  moment  as  he  closed 
the  door,  and  said, — 

"  Friend  Harwood,  here  is  a  fine,  gentle  cow,  feed- 
mg  at  your  door  ;  and  for  old  acquaintance  sake,  you 
and  your  family  are  welcome  to  the  use  of  her  for 
the  present,  or  until  you  can  make  out  better." 

When  they  were  left  alone,  Jane  poured  out  her 
gratitude  to  her  Almighty  Protector  in  a  flood  of  joy- 
ful  tears.  Kindness  to  which  she  had  recently  been 
a  stranger,  fell  as  balm  of  Gilead  upon  her  wounded 

spirit. 

"  Husband,"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  fullness  of  her 

heart,  "  we  may  yet  be  happy." 

He  answered  not,  and  she  perceived  that  he  heard 
not.  He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  in 
a  deep  and  stupid  sleep  was  dispelling  the  fumes  of 

intoxication. 

This  new  family  of  emigrants,  though  in  the  midst 
of  poverty,  were  sensible  of  a  degree  of  satisfaction 
to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers.  The  diffi- 
culty of  procuring  ardent  spirits  in  this  small  and 
isolated  community,  promised  to  be  the  means  of 
establishing  their  peace.  The  mother  busied  herself 
m  making  their  humble  tenement  neat  and  comfort- 
able, while  her  husband,  as  if  ambitious  to  earn  in  a 
new  residence  the  reputation  he  had  forfeited  in  the 


2£0  TKa    INTEMPERATE. 

old,  labored  diligently  to  assist  his  neighbors  in  ga- 
thering  of  their  harvest,  receiving  in  payment  such 
articles  as  were  needed  for  the  subsistence  of  his 
household.  Jane  continually  gave  thanks  in  her 
prayers  for  this  great  blessing ;  and  the  hope  she  per- 
mitted herself  to  indulge  of  his  permanent  reforma- 
tion, imparted  unwonted  cheerfulness  to  her  brow 
and  demeanor.  The  invalid  boy  seemed  also  to 
gatlier  healing  from  his  mother's  smiles ;  for  so  great 
was  her  power  over  him,  siiice  sickness  had  render- 
ed his  dependence  complete,  that  his  comfort,  and 
even  his  countenance,  were  a  faithful  reflection  of 
her  own.  Perceiving  the  degree  of  her  influence, 
she  endeavored  to  use  it,  as  every  religious  parent 
should,  for  his  spiritual  benefit.  She  supplicated  that 
the  pencil  which  v/as  to  write  upon  his  soul,  might 
be  guided  from  above.  She  spoke  to  him  in  the  ten- 
derest  manner  of  his  Father  in  Heaven,  and  of  His 
will  respecting  little  children.  She  pointed  out  hi^ 
goodness  in  the  daily  gifts  that  sustain  life ;  in  the 
glorious  sun,  as  it  came  forth  rejoicing  in  the  east, 
in  the  gently-falling  rain,  the  frail  plant,  and  the  dews 
that  nourish  it.  She  reasoned  with  him  of  the 
changes  of  nature,  till  he  loved  even  the  storm,  and 
the  lofty  thunder,  because  they  came  from  God. 
She  repeated  to  him  passages  of  scripture,  with  which 
her  memory  was  stored :  and  sang  hymns,  until  she 
perceived  that  if  he  was  in  pain,  he  complained  not, 
if  he  might  but  hear  her  voice.  She  made  him  ac- 
quainted with  the  life  of  the  compassionate  Redeem- 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  221 

er,  and  how  he  called  young  children  to  his  arms, 
though  the  disciples  forbade  them.  And  it  seemed 
as  if  a  voice  from  heaven  urged  her  never  to  desist 
from  cherishing  this  tender  and  deep-rooted  piety  •, 
because,  like  the  flower  of  grass,  he  must  soon  fade 
away.  Yet,  though  it  was  evident  that  the  seeds 
of  disease  were  in  his  system,  his  health  at  intervals 
seemed  to  be  improving,  and  the  little  household 
partook,  for  a  time,  the  blessings  of  tranquillity  and 

content. 

But  let  none  flatter  himself  that  the  dominion  of 
vice  is  suddenly  or  easily  broken.     It  may  seem  to 
relax  its  grasp,  and  to  slumber ;  but  the  victim  who 
has  long  worn  its  chain,  if  he  would  utterly  escape, 
and  triumph  at  last,  must  do  so  in  the  strength  of 
Omnipotence.    This,  James  Harwood  never  sought. 
He  had  begun  to  experience  that  prostration  of  spirits 
which  attends  the  abstraction  of  an  habitual  stimulant. 
His  resolution  to  recover  his  lost  character  was  not 
proof  against  this  physical  inconvenience.     He  de- 
termined at  all  hazards  to  gratify  his  depraved  appe- 
tite.    He  laid  his  plans  deliberately,  and  with  the 
pretext   of  making   some   arrangements  about  the 
wagon,  which  had  been  left  broken  on  the  road,  de- 
parted from  his  home.     His  stay  was  protracted  be- 
yond the  appointed  limit,    nd  at  his  return,  his  sin 
was  written  on  his  brow,  in  characters  too  strong  to 
be  mistaken.     That  he  had  also  brought  with  him 
some  hoard  of  intoxicating  poison,  to  which  to  resort, 
there  remained  no  room  to  doubt.     Day  after  day 

T2 


11 


222  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

did  his  shrinking  household  witness  the  ahernations 
of  causeless  anger  and  brutal  tyranny.  To  lay  waste 
the  comfort  of  his  wife,  seemed  to  be  his  prominent 
object.  By  constant  contradiction  and  misconstruc- 
tion, he  strove  to  distress  her,  and  then  visited  her 
sensibilities  upon  her  as  sins.  Had  she  been  more 
obtuse  by  nature,  or  more  indifferent  to  his  welfare, 
she  mio-ht  with  greater  ease  have  borne  the  cross. 
But  her  youth  was  nurtured  in  tenderness,  and  edu- 
cation had  refined  her  susceptibilities,  both  of  plea- 
sure and  pain.  She  could  not  forget  the  love  he  had 
once  manifested  for  her,  nor  prevent  the  chilling  con- 
trast from  filling  her  with  anguish.  She  could  not 
resign  the  hope  that  the  being  who  had  early  evinced 
correct  feelings  and  noble  principles  of  action,  might 
vet  be  won  back  to  that  virtue  which  had  rendered 
him  worthy  of  her  alTections.  Still,  this  hope  defer- 
red was  sickness  and  sorrow  to  the  heart.  She  found 
the  necessity  of  deriving  consolation,  and  the  power 
of  endurance,  wholly  from  above.  The  tender  in- 
vitation by  the  mouth  of  a  prophet,  was  as  balm  to 
her  wounded  soul, — "  As  a  woman  forsaken  and 
grieved  in  spirit,  and  as  a  wife  of  youth,  when  thou 
wast  refused,  have  I  called  thee,  saith  thy  God." 

So  faithful  was  she  in  the  discharge  of  the  difficult 
duties  that  devolved  upon  her — so  careful  not  to  ir- 
ritate her  husband  by  reproach  or  gloom — that  to  a 
casual  observer  she  might  have  appeared  to  be  con- 
firming the  doctrine  of  the  ancient  philosopher,  that 
happiness  is  in  exact  proportion  to  virtue.     Had  he 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  •  2l3 

asserted,  that  virtue  is  the  source  of  all  that  happi- 
ness which  depends  upon  ourselves,  none  could  have 
controverted  his  position.  But,  to  a  woman,  a  wife, 
a  mother,  how  small  is  the  portion  of  independent 
happiness !  She  has  woven  the  tendrils  of  her  soul 
around  many  props.  Each  revolving  year  renders 
their  support  more  necessary.  They  cannot  waver, 
or  warp,  or  break,  but  she  must  tremble  and  bleed. 

There  was  one  modification  of  her  husband's  per- 
secutions which  the  fullest  measure  of  her  piety  could 
not  enable  her  to  bear  unmoved.  This  was  unkind- 
ness  to  her  feeble  and  suffering  boy.  It  was  at  first 
commenced  as  the  surest  mode  of  distressing  her.  It 
opened  a  direct  avenue  to  her  heart-strings. — What 
began  in  perverseness  seemed  to  end  in  hatred,  as 
evil  habits  sometimes  create  perverted  principles. 
The  wasted  and  wild-eyed  invalid  shrank  from  his 
father's  glance  and  footstep,  as  from  the  approach 
of  a  foe.  More  than  once  had  he  taken  him  from 
the  little  bed  which  maternal  care  had  provided  for 
him,  and  forced  him  to  go  forth  in  the  cold  of  the 
winter  storm. 

"  I  mean  to  harden  him,"  said  he.  "  All  the 
neighbors  know  that  you  make  such  a  fool  of  him 
that  he  will  never  be  able  to  get  a  living.  For  my 
part,  I  wish  I  had  never  been  called  to  the  trial  of 
supporting  a  useless  boy,  who  pretends  to  be  sick 
only  that  he  may  be  coaxed  by  a  silly  mother." 

On  such  occasions,  it  was  in  vain  that  the  mother 
attempted  to  protect  her  child.     She  might  neither 


£24  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

shelter  him  hi  her  bosom,  nor  control  the  frantic  vio- 
lence of  the  father.  Harshness,  and  the  agitation 
of  fear,  deepened  a  disease  which  might  else  have 
yielded.  The  timid  boy,  in  terror  of  his  natural 
protector,  withered  away  like  a  blighted  flower.  It 
was  of  no  avail  that  friends  remonstrated  with  the 
unfeeling  parent,  or  that  hoary-headed  men  warned 
him  solemnly  of  his  sins.  Intemperance  had  destroy- 
ed his  respect  for  man,  and  his  fear  of  God. 

Spring  at  length  emerged  from  the  shades  of  that 
heavy  and  bitter  winter.  But  its  smile  brought  no 
gladness  to  the  declining  child.  Consumption  fed 
upon  his  vitals,  and  his  nights  were  restless  and  full 
of  pain. 

"  Mother,  I  wish  I  could  smell  the  violets  that  grew 
upon  the  green  bank  by  our  old,  dear  home." 

"  It  is  too  early  for  violets,  my  child.  But  the  grass 
's  beautifully  green  around  us,  and  the  birds  sing 
sweetly,  as  if  their  hearts  were  full  of  praise." 

*'  In  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  the  clear  waters 
of  the  brook  that  ran  by  the  bottom  of  my  little  garden. 
I  wish  I  could  taste  them  once  more.  And  I  heard 
such  music,  too,  as  used  to  come  from  that  white 
church  among  the  trees,  where  every  Sunday  the 
happy  people  meet  to  worship  God." 

The  mother  saw  that  the  hectic  fever  had  been 
Ions:  increasinfj  and  knew  there  was  such  an  un- 
earthly  brightness  in  his  eye,  that  she  feared  his  in- 
tellect wandered.  She  seated  herself  on  his  low  bed, 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  225 

and  bent  over  him  to  soothe  and  compose  him.  He 
lay  silent  for  some  time. 

"  Do  you  think  my  father  will  come  ?" 

Dreadinsc  the  aoronizincr  agitation  which,  in  his 
paroxysms  of  coughing  and  pain,  he  evinced  at  the 
sound  of  his  father's  well-known  footstep,  she  an- 
swered,— 

"  I  think  not,  love.  You  had  better  try  to  sleep." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  do  not  feel 
afraid  now.  Perhaps  he  would  let  me  lay  my  cheek 
to  his  once  more,  as  he  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  babe 
in  my  grandmother's  arms.  I  should  be  glad  to  say 
good  bye  to  him,  before  I  go  to  my  Saviour." 

Gazing  intently  in  his  face,  she  saw  the  work  of 
the  destroyer,  in  lines  too  plain  to  be  mistaken. 

"  My  son — my  dear  son — say,  Lord  Jesus  receive 
my  spirit." 

"  Mother,"  he  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  upon  his 
ghastly  features,  "  he  is  ready.  I  desire  to  go  to  him. 
Hold  the  baby  to  me,  that  I  may  kiss  her.  That  is 
all.  Now  sing  to  me,  and,  oh  !  wrap  me  close  in 
your  arms,  for  I  shiver  with  cold." 

He  clung  with  a  death  grasp,  to  that  bosom  whicli 
had  long  been  his  sole  earthly  refuge. 

"  Sincf  louder,  dear  mother, — a  little  louder. — I 
cannot  hear  you." 

A  tremulous  tone,  as  of  a  broken  harp,  rose  above 
her  grief,  to  comfort  the  dying  child.  One  sigh  of 
icy  breath  was  upon  her  cheek,  as  she  joined  it  to  his 
— one  shudder — and  all  was  over.     She  held  the 


226  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

body  long  in  her  arms,  as  if  fondly  hoping  to  Avarm 
and  revivify  it  with  her  breath.  Then  she  stretched 
it  upon  its  bed,  and  kneeHng  beside  it,  hid  her  face 
in  that  grief  which  none  but  mothers  feel.  It  was  a 
deep  and  sacred  solitude,  along  with  the  dead.  No- 
thing save  the  soft  breathing  of  the  sleeping  babe  fell 
upon  that  solemn  pause.  Then  the  silence  was  bro- 
ken by  a  wail  of  piercing  sorrow.  It  ceased,  and  a 
voice  arose, — a  voice  of  supplication  for  strength  to 
endure,  as  "  seeing  Him  who  is  invisible."  Faith 
closed  what  was  begun  in  weakness.  It  became  a 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  Him  who  had  released  the 
dove-like  spirit  from  the  prison-house  of  pain,  that 
it  might  taste  the  peace  and  mingle  in  the  melody  of 
heaven. 

She  arose  from  the  orison,  and  bent  calmly  over 
her  dead.  The  thin,  placid  features  wore  a  smile, 
as  when  he  had  spoken  of  Jesus.  She  composed 
the  shining  locks  around  the  pure  forehead,  and  gazed 
long  on  what  was  to  her  so  beautiful.  Tears  had 
vanished  from  her  eyes,  and  in  their  stead  was  an 
expression  almost  sublime,  as  of  one  who  had  given 
an  angel  back  to  God. 

The  father  entered  carelessly.  She  pointed  to  the 
pallid,  immovable  brow.  "  See,  he  suffers  no  long- 
er." H^e  drew  near,  and  looked  on  the  dead  with  sur- 
prise and  sadness.  A  few  natural  tears  forced  their 
>vay,  and  fell  on  the  face  of  the  first-born,  who  was 
once  his  pride.  The  memories  of  that  moment  were 
bitter.    He  spoke  teu^wly  to  the  emaciated  mother; 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  22/ 

and  she,  who  a  short  time  before  was  raised  above 
the  sway  of  grief,  wept  hke  an  infant  as  those  few 
affectionate  tones  touched  the  sealed  fountains  of 
other  years. 

Nei2;hbors  and  friends  visited  thern,  desirous  to 
console  their  sorrow,  and  attended  them  when  they 
committed  the  body  to  the  earth.  There  was  a  sliady 
and  secluded  spot,  which  they  had  consecrated  by  the 
burial  of  their  few  dead.  Thither  that  whole  little 
colony  were  gathered,  and,  seated  on  the  fresh 
springing  grass,  listened  to  the  holy,  healing  words 
of  the  inspired  volume.  It  was  read  by  the  oldest 
man  in  the  colony,  who  had  himself  often  mourned. 
As  he  bent  reverently  over  the  sacred  page,  there 
was  that  on  his  brow  which  seemed  to  say, — "  This 
has  been  my  comfort  in  my  affliction."  Silver  hairs 
thinly  covered  his  temples,  and  his  low  voice  was 
modulated  by  feeling,  as  he  read  of  the  frailty  of  man, 
withering  like  the  flower  of  grass,  before  it  groweth 
up  ;  and  of  His  majesty  in  whose  sight  "  a  thousand 
years  are  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past,  and  as  a  watch 
in  the  night."  He  selected  from  the  words  of  that 
compassionate  One,  who  "  gathereth  the  lambs  with 
his  arm,  and  carrieth  them  in  his  bosom,"  who, 
pointing  out  as  an  example  the  humility  of  little  chil- 
dren, said, — "  Except  ye  become  as  one  of  these,  ye 
cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  and  who  call- 
eth  all  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  to  come  unto  him, 
that  he  may  give  them  rest.  The  scene  called  forth 
sympathy,  even  from  manly  bosoms.     The  mother, 


5      HI     «,  , 

I 


228  THE    I^TEMPERATE. 

worn  with  watching  and  weariness,  bowed  her  head 
down  to  the  clay  that  concealed  her  child.  And  it 
was  observed  with  gratitude  by  that  friendly  group, 
tiiat  the  husband  supported  her  in  his  arms,  and  min- 
gled his  tears  with  hers. 

He  returned  from  this  funeral  in  much  mental  dis- 
tress. His  sins  were  brought  to  remembrance,  and 
reflection  was  misery.  For  many  nights,  sleep  was 
disturbed  by  visions  of  his  neglected  boy. — Some- 
times he  imagined  that  he  heard  him  coughing  from 
his  low  bed,  and  felt  constrained  to  go  to  him,  in  a 
strange  disposition  of  kindness,  but  his  limbs  were 
unable  to  obey  the  dictates  of  his  will.  Then  he 
would  see  him  pointing  with  a  thin  dead  hand,  to  the 
dark  grave,  or  beckoning;  him  to  follow  to  the  unseen 
world.  Conscience  haunted  liim  with  terrors,  and 
many  prayers  from  pious  hearts  arose,  that  he  might 
now  be  led  to  repentance.  The  venerable  man  who 
had  read  the  bible  at  the  burial  of  his  boy,  counselled 
and  entreated  him,  with  the  earnestness  of  a  father, 
to  yield  to  the  warning  voice  from  above,  and  to 
"  break  off  his  sins  by  righteousness,  and  his  iniqui- 
ties by  turning  unto  the  Lord." 

There  was  a  chano;e  in  his  habits  and  conversa- 
tion,  and  his  friends  trusted  it  would  be  permanent. 
She  who,  above  all  others,  was  interested  in  the  re- 
sult, spared  no  exertion  to  win  him  back  to  the  way 
of  truth,  and  to  soothe  his  heart  into  peace  with  it- 
self, and  obedience  to  his  Maker.  Yet  was  she  doom- 
ed to  witness  the  full  force  of  grief  and  of  remorse 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  22) 

upon  intemperance,  only  to  see  them  utterly  over- 
thrown at  last.  The  reviving  virtue,  with  whose 
indications  she  had  solaced  herself,  and  even  given 
thanks  that  her  beloved  son  had  not  died  in  vain, 
was  transient  as  the  morning  dew.  Habits  of  indus- 
try, which  had  begun  to  spring  up,  proved  themselves 
to  be  without  root.  The  dead,  and  his  cruelty  to  the 
dead,  were  alike  forgotten.  Disaffection  to  the  chas- 
tened being,  who  against  hope  still  hoped  for  his  sal- 
vation,  resumed  its  dominion.  The  friends  who  had 
alternately  reproved  and  encouraged  him,  were  con- 
vinced that  their  efforts  had  been  of  no  avail.  Intem- 
perance, "  like  the  strong  man  armed,"  took  posses- 
sion of  a  soul  that  lifted  no  cry  for  aid  to  the  Holy 
Spirit,  and  girded  on  no  weapon  to  resist  the  de- 
stroyer. 

Summer  passed  away,  and  the  anniversary  of  their 
arrival  at  the  colony  returned.  It  was  to  Jane  Har- 
wood  a  period  of  sad  and  solemn  retrospection.  The 
joys  of  early  days,  and  the  sorrows  of  maturity, 
passed  in  review  before  her,  and  while  she  wept,  she 
questioned  her  heart,  what  had  been  its  gain  from  a 
father's  discipline,  or  whether  it  had  sustained  that 
greatest  of  all  losses — the  loss  of  its  afflictions. 

She  was  alone  at  this  season  of  self-communion. 
The  absences  of  her  husband  had  become  more  fre- 
quent  and  protracted.  A  storm,  which  feelingly 
reminded  her  of  those  which  had  often  beat  upon 
them  when  homeless  and  weary  travellers,  had  been 
rasincT  for  nearly  two  days.     To  this  cause  she 


230  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

imputed  the  unusually  long  stay  of  her  husband. 
Through  the  third  night  of  his  absence  she  lay  sleep- 
less, listening  for  his  steps.  Sonaetimes  she  fancied 
she  heard  shouts  of  laughter,  for  the  mood  in  which 
he  returned  from  his  revels  was  various.  But  it  was 
only  the  shriek  of  the  tempest.  Then  she  thought 
some  ebullition  of  his  frenzied  an^er  rang  in  her 
ears.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  hoarse  wind  through 
the  forest.  All  night  long  she  listened  to  these  sounds, 
and  hushed  and  sang  to  her  affriohted  babe.  Un- 
refreshed  she  arose  and  resumed  her  morning  la- 
bors. 

Suddenly  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  group  of 
neighbors,  coming  up  slowly  from  the  river.  A 
dark  and  terrible  foreboding  oppressed  her.  She  has- 
tened out  to  meet  them.  Coming  towards  her  house 
was  a  female  friend,  agitated  and  tearful,  who  pass- 
ing her  arm  around  her,  would  have  spoken. 

"  Oh,  you  come  to  bring  me  evil  tidings  !  I  pray 
you  let  me  know  the  worst." 

The  object  was  indeed  to  prepare  her  mind  for  a 
fearful  calamity.  The  body  of  her  husband  had  been 
found  drowned,  as  was  supposed,  during  the  dark- 
ness of  the  preceding  night,  in  attempting  to  cross 
the  bridge  of  logs,  which  had  been  partially  broken 
by  the  swollen  waters.  Utter  prostration  of  spirit 
came  over  the  desolate  mourner.  Her  energies  were 
broken  and  her  heart  withered.  She  had  sustained 
the  privations  of  poverty  and  emigration,  and  the 
burdens  of  unceasing  labor  and  unrequited  care,  with" 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  221 


out  murmuring.  She  had  lain  her  first-born  in  the 
grave  with  resignation,  for  faith  had  heard  her  Sa- 
viour saying, — "  Suffer  the  httle  child  to  come  unto 
me."  She  had  seen  him,  in  whom  her  heart's  young 
affections  were  garnered  up,  become  a  "  persecutor 
and  injurious,"  a  prey  to  vice  the  most  disgusting 
and  destructive.  Yet  she  had  borne  wp  under  all. 
One  hope  remained  with  her  as  an  "  anchor  of  the 
soul," — the  hope  that  he  might  yet  repent  and  be 
reclaimed.  She  had  persevered  in  her  complicated 
and  self-denying  duties  with  that  charity  which 
*'  beareth  all  things, — believeth  all  things, — endureth 
all  thinc;s." 



But  now,  he  had  died  in  his  sin.  The  deadly 
leprosy  which  had  stolen  over  his  heart,  could  no 
more  be  "  purged  by  sacrifice  or  otfering  for  ever." 
She  knew  not  that  a  single  prayer  for  mercy  had 
preceded  the  soul  on  its  passage  to  the  High  Judge's 
bar.  There  were  bitter  dregs  in  this  grief,  which  she 
had  never  before  wrung  out. 

Again  the  sad-hearted  community  assembled  in 
their  humble  cemetery.  A  funeral  in  an  infant  col- 
ony awakens  sympathies  of  an  almost  exclusive  char- 
acter. It  is  as  if  a  large  family  suffered.  One  is 
smitten  down  whom  every  eye  knew,  every  voice 
saluted.  To  bear  along  the  corpse  of  the  strong 
man,  throuo-h  the  fields  which  he  had  sown,  and  to 
cover  motionless  in  the  grave  that  arm  which  trusted 
to  have  reaped  the  ripening  harvest,  awakens  a  thrill 
deep  and  startling  in  the  breast  of  those  who  wrought 


232  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

by  his  side  during  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 
To  lay  the  mother  on  her  pillow  of  clay,  whose  last 
struggle  with  life  was,  perchance,  to  resign  the  hope 
of  one  more  brief  visit  to  the  land  of  her  fathers, — 
whose  heart's  last  pulsation  might  have  been  a  pray- 
er that  her  children  should  return  and  grow  up 
within  the  shadow  of  the  school-house  and  the  church 
of  God,  is  a  grief  in  which  none  save  emigrants 
may  participate.  To  consign  to  their  narrow,  note- 
less abode,  both  young  and  old,  the  infant  and  him 
of  hoary  hairs,  without  the  solemn  knell,  the  sable 
train,  the  hallowed  voice  of  the  man  of  God,  giving 
back,  in  the  name  of  his  fellow-Christians,  the  most 
precious  roses  of  their  pilgrim  path,  and  speaking 
with  divine  authority  of  Him  who  is  the  "  resurrec- 
tion and  the  life,"  adds  desolation  to  that  weeping 
with  which  man  goeth  downward  to  his  dust. 

But  with  heaviness  of  an  unspoken  and  peculiar 
nature  was  this  victim  of  vice  borne  from  the  home 
that  he  troubled,  and  laid  by  the  side  of  his  son  to 
whose  tender  years  he  had  been  an  unnatural  ene- 
my. There  was  sorrow  among  all  who  stood  around 
his  grave,  and  it  bore  features  of  that  sorrow  which 
is  without  hope. 

The  widowed  mourner  was  not  able  to  raise  her 
head  from  the  bed,  when  the  bloated  remains  of  her 
unfortunate  husband  were  committed  to  the  earth. 
Long  and  severe  sickness  ensued,  and  in  her  conva- 
lescence a  letter  was  received  from  her  brother,  in- 
viting her  and  her  child  to  an  asylum  under  his  roof 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  233 

and  appointing  a  period  to  come  and  conduct  them 
on  their  homeward  journey. 

With  her  Httle  daughter,  the  sole  remnant  of  her 
wrecked  heart's  wealth,  she  returned  to  her  kindred. 
It  was  with  emotions  of  deep  and  painful  gratitude 
that  she  bade  farewell  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  in- 
fant settlement,  whose  kindness  through  all  her  ad- 
versities had  never  failed.  And  when  they  remem- 
be^-ed  the  example  of  uniform  patience  and  piety 
which  she  had  exhibited,  and  the  saint-like  manner 
in  which  she  had  sustained  her  burdens,  and  cherish- 
ed their  sympathies,  they  felt  as  if  a  tutelary  spirit 
had  departed  from  among  them. 

In  the  home  of  her  brother,  she  educated  her 
daughter  in  industry,  and  that  contentment  which 
virtue  teaches.  Restored  to  those  friends  with  whom 
the  morning  of  life  had  passed,  she  shared  with  hum- 
ble cheerfulness  the  comforts  that  earth  had  yet  in 
store  for  her ;  but  in  the  cherished  sadness  of  hei 
perpetual  widowhood,  in  the  bursting  sighs  of  her 
nightly  orison,  might  be  traced  a  sacred  and  deep- 
rooted  sorrow — the  memory  of  her  erring  husband, 
and  the  miseries  of  unreclaimed  intemperance. 


U  2 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

She  sat  alone  beside  her  hearth — 

For  many  nights  alone  ; 
She  slept  not  on  the  pleasant  couch 

Where  fragrant  herbs  were  strown. 

At  first  she  bound  her  raven  hair 

With  feather  and  with  shell ; 
But  then  she  hoped ;  at  length,  like  night, 

Around  her  neck  it  fell. 

They  saw  her  wandering  'mid  the  woods, 
Lone,  with  the  cheerless  dawn, 

And  then  they  said,  "  Can  this  be  her 
We  caUed  '  The  Startled  Fawn?'  " 

Her  heart  was  in  her  large  sad  eyes, 
Half  sunshine  and  half  shade ; 

And  love,  as  love  first  springs  to  life, 
Of  everything  afraid. 

The  red  leaf  far  more  heavily 

Fell  down  to  autumn  earth, 
Than  her  light  feet,  which  seemed  to  move 

To  music  and  to  mirth. 

With  the  light  feet  of  early  youth. 

What  hopes  and  joys  depart ! 
Ah !  nothing  like  the  heavy  step 

Betrays  the  heavy  heart. 


236  THE   INDIAN    GIRL. 

It  is  a  usual  history 

That  Indian  girl  could  tell, 
Fate  sets  apart  one  common  doom 

For  all  who  love  too  well. 

The  proud — the  shy — the  sensitive, 

Life  has  not  many  such ; 
They  dearly  buy  their  happiness, 

By  feeling  it  too  much. 

A  stranger  to  her  forest  home, 
That  fair  young  stranger  came ; 

They  raised  for  him  the  funeral  song— 
For  him  the  funeral  flame. 

Love  sprang  from  pity, — and  her  arms 

Around  his  arms  she  threw ; 
She  told  her  father,  "If  he  dies, 

Your  daughter  dieth  too." 

For  her  sweet  sake  they  set  him  free — 

He  lingered  at  her  side ; 
And  many  a  native  song  yet  tells 

Of  that  pale  stranger's  bride. 

Two  years  have  passed — how  much  two  yean 

Have  taken  in  their  flight ! 
They  've  taken  from  the  lip  its  smile, 

And  from  the  eye  its  light. 

Poor  child  !  she  was  a  child  in  years— 

So  timid  and  so  young  ; 
With  what  a  fond  and  earnest  faith 

To  desperate  hope  she  clung ! 


THE    I]?a)IAN    GIRL.  237 

His  eyes  grew  cold — his  voice  grew  strange — 

They  only  grew  more  dear. 
She  sers-ed  him  meekly,  anxiously, 

With  love— half  faith,  half  fear. 

And  can  a  fond  and  faithful  heart 

Be  worthless  in  those  eyes 
For  which  it  beats?— Ah  !  woe  to  those 

Who  such  a  heart  despise. 

Poor  child !  what  lonely  days  she  passed, 

With  nothing  to  recall 
But  bitter  taunts,  and  careless  words, 

And  looks  more  cold  than  all. 

Alas !  for  love,  that  sits  at  home, 

Forsaken,  and  yet  fond  ; 
The  grief  that  sits  beside  the  hearth, 

Life  has  no  grief  beyond. 

He  left  her,  but  she  followed  him — 

She  thought  he  could  not  bear 
When  she  had  left  her  home  for  him 

To  look  on  her  despair. 

Adown  the  strange  and  mighty  stream 

She  took  her  lonely  way  ! 
The  stars  at  night  her  pilots  were, 

As  was  the  sun  by  day. 

Yet  mournfully — how  mournfully ! — 

The  Indian  looked  behind , 
When  the  last  sound  of  voice  or  step 

Died  on  the  midnight  wind. 


238  THE    INDIAN    GIRL. 

Yet  Still  adown  the  gloomy  stream 

She  plied  her  weary  oar ; 
Her  husband — he  had  left  their  home, 

And  it  was  home  no  more. 

She  found  him — but  she  found  in  vain- 
He  spurned  her  from  his  side  ; 

He  said,  her  brow  was  all  too  dark, 
For  her  to  be  his  bride. 

She  grasped  his  hands, — her  own  were  cold,- 

And  silent  turned  away, 
As  she  had  not  a  tear  to  shed, 
And  not  a  word  to  say. 

And  pale  as  death  she  reached  her  boat, 

And  guided  it  along ; 
With  broken  voice  she  strove  to  raise 

A  melancholy  song. 

None  watched  the  lonely  Indian  girl,— 

She  passed  unmarked  of  all, 
Until  they  saw  her  slight  canoe 

Approach  the  mighty  Fall !  * 

Upright,  within  that  slender  boat. 

They  saw  the  pale  girl  stand, 
Her  dark  hair  streaming  far  behind — 

Upraised  her  desperate  hand. 

The  air  is  filled  with  shriek  and  shout— 

They  call,  but  call  in  vain  ; 
The  boat  amid  the  waters  dashed — 

'T  was  never  seen  again. 

*  Niagara. 


!i — 


GRIEF.  239 


GRIEF. 

I  TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless — 

That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 

Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  midnight  air, 

Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 

Of  shriekmg  and  reproach.     Full  desertness 

In  souls,  as  countries,  lieth  silent-bare 

Under  the  blenching,  vertical  eye-glare 

Of  the  absolute  heavens.     Deep-hearted  man,  express 

Grief  for  thy  dead  in  silence  like  to  death ; 

Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 

In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe, 

Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath ! 

Touch  it !  the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet— 

If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go. 


240  SUBSTITUTION. 


SUBSTITUTION. 

When  some  beloved  voice,  that  veas  to  you 
Both  sound  and  sweetness,  faileth  suddenly, 
And  silence,  against  which  you  dare  not  cry, 
Aches  round  you  like  a  strong  disease  and  new — 
What  hope  ?  what  help?  what  music  will  undo 
That  silence  to  your  sense  1     Not  friendship's  sigh — 
Not  reason's  subtle  count !     Not  melody 
Of  viols,  nor  of  pipes  that  Faunus  blew — 
Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightingales. 
Whose  hearts  leap  upward  through  the  cypress  trees 
To  the  clear  moon  ;  nor  yet  the  spheric  laws 
Self-chanted, — nor  the  angels'  sweet  All  hails, 
Met  in  the  smile  of  God.     Nay,  none  of  these. 
Speak  THOU,  availing  Christ ! — and  fill  tliis  pause. 


COMFORT. 


241 


COMFORT. 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thy  feet — 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow, 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber,  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection — thus,  in  sooth, 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing  !     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth ; 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled. 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

V 


242  WORK. 


WORK. 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  1     Say,  to  toil— 

Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines, 

For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  till  it  declines. 

And  Death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work  assoil. 

God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odorous  oil. 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign  ;  and  He  assigns 

All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystallines. 

For  younger  fellow-workers  of  the  soil 

To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 

Take  patience,  labor,  to  their  heart  and  hands, 

From  thy  hands,  and  thy  heart,  and  thy  brave  cheery. 

And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to  a^ 

The  least  flower,  with  a  brimming  cup,  may  stand. 

And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 


THE   BOON    OF    MEMORY.  243 


THE  BOON  OF  MEMORY. 


"Many  things  answered  me."— Manfred. 


I  GO,  I  go ! — and  must  mine  image  fade 

From  the  green  spots  wherein  my  childhood  played, 

By  my  own  streams  1 
Must  my  hfe  part  from  each  famiUar  place, 
As  a  bird's  song,  that  leaves  the  woods  no  trace 

Of  its  lone  themes? 

Will  the  friend  pass  my  dwelling,  and  forget 
The  welcomes  there,  the  hours  when  we  have  met 

In  grief  or  glee  1 
All  the  sweet  counsel,  the  communion  high, 
The  kindly  words  of  trust,  in  days  gone  by, 

Poured  full  and  free? 

A  boon,  a  tahsman,  O  Memory  !  give. 

To  shrine  my  name  in  hearts  where  I  would  live 

For  evermore  1 
Bid  the  wind  speak  of  me  where  I  have  dwelt, 
Bid  the  stream's  voice,  of  all  my  soul  hath  felt, 

A  thought  restore ! 

In  the  rich  rose,  whose  bloom  I  loved  so  well, 
In  the  dim  brooding  violet  of  the  dell. 

Set  deep  that  thought ! 
And  let  the  sunset's  melancholy  glow. 
And  let  the  Spring's  first  whisper,  faint  and  low, 

With  me  be  fraught ! 


244  THE    BOON    OF    BIEMORY. 

And  Memory  answered  me  : — "  Wild  wish  and  vain ! 
I  have  no  hues  the  loveliest  to  detain 

In  the  heart's  core. 
The  place  they  held  in  bosoms  all  their  own, 
Soon  with  new  shadows  filled,  new  flowers  o'ergrown. 

Is  theirs  no  more." 

Hast  thou  such  power,  O  Love? — And  Love  replied, 
*'  It  is  not  mine  !     Pour  out  thy  soul's  full  tide 

Of  hope  and  trust, 
Prayer,  tear,  devotedness,  that  boon  to  gain — 
'Tis  but  to  write  with  the  heart's  fiery  rain, 

Wild  words  on  dust !" 

Song,  is  the  gift  with  thee  ? — I  ask  a  lay, 
Soft,  fervent,  deep,  that  will  not  pass  away 

From  the  still  breast ; 
Filled  with  a  tone — oh !  not  for  deathless  fame,  • 

But  a  sweet  haunting  murmur  of  my  name, 

Where  it  would  rest. 

And  Song  made  answer — "  It  is  not  in  me. 
Though  called  immortal ;  though  my  gifts  may  be 

All  but  divine. 
A  place  of  lonely  brightness  I  can  give : 
A  changeless  one,  where  thou  with  Love  wouldst  Kv&— 

This  is  not  mine  !" 

Death,  Death  !  wilt  thou  the  restless  wish  fulfill? 
And  Death  the  Strong  One,  spoke  : — "  I  can  but  still 

Each  vain  regret. 
What  if  forgotten  ? — All  thy  soul  would  crave, 
Thou  too,  within  the  mantle  of  the  grave, 

W^ilt  soon  forget." 


SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR.       245 

Then  did  my  heart  in  lone  faint  sadness  die, 
A.S  from  all  nature's  voices  one  reply, 

But  one — was  given. 
"  Earth  has  no  heart,  fond  dreamer  !  with  a  tone 
To  send  thee  back  the  spirit  of  thine  own — 

Seek  it  in  Heaven." 


SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Old  Time  has  turned  another  page 

Of  eternity  and  truth  ; 
He  reads  with  a  warning  voice  to  age, 

And  whispers  a  lesson  to  youth. 
A  year  has  fled  o'er  heart  and  head 

Since  last  the  yule  log  burnt ; 
And  we  have  a  task  to  closely  ask. 

What  the  bosom  and  brain  have  learnt  1 
Oh !  let  us  hope  that  our  sands  have  run 

With  \visdom's  precious  grains  ; 
Oh !  may  we  find  that  our  hands  have  done 

Some  work  of  glorious  pains. 
Then  a  welcome  and  cheer  to  the  merry  new  year. 

While  the  holly  gleams  above  us ; 
With  a  pardon  for  the  foes  who  hate. 

And  a  prayer  for  those  who  love  us. 

We  may  have  seen  some  loved  ones  pass 

To  the  land  of  hallowed  rest ; 
We  may  miss  the  glow  of  an  honest  brow 

And  the  warmth  of  a  friendly  breast : 
But  if  we  nursed  them  while  on  earth, 

With  hearts  all  true  and  kind, 
V2 


246        SONG  FOR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Will  their  spirits  blame  the  sinless  mirth 

Of  those  true  hearts  left  behind  1 
No,  no  I  it  were  not  well  or  wise 

To  mourn  with  endless  pain  ; 
There  's  a  better  world  be5"ond  the  skies, 

Where  the  good  shall  meet  again. 
Then  a  welcome  and  cheer  to  the  merry  new  year, 

While  the  holly  gleams  above  us ; 
With  a  pardon  for  the  foes  who  hate. 

And  a  prayer  for  those  who  love  us. 

Have  our  days  rolled  on  serenely  free 

From  sorrow's  dim  alloy? 
Do  we  still  possess  the  gifts  that  bless 

And  fill  our  souls  with  joy  ? 
Are  the  creatures  dear  still  clinging  near  ? 

Do  we  hear  loved  voices  come  ? 
Do  we  gaze  on  eyes  whose  glances  shed 

A  halo  round  our  home  ? 
Oh,  if  we  do,  let  thanks  be  poured 

To  Him  who  hath  spared  and  given, 
And  forget  not  o'er  the  festive  board 

The  mercies  held  from  heaven. 
Then  a  welcome  and  cheer  to  the  merry  new  year, 

While  the  holly  gleams  above  us ; 
With  a  pardon  for  the  foes  who  hate. 

And  a  prayer  for  those  who  love  us. 


>  1  •  > 
J  > ' » 


•it 


i 


r^—""^'— """^"""""'^""^^ 


THE    PATRIARCH. 


"Grently  on  him,  had  gentle  Nature  laid 
The  weight  of  years. — All  passions  that  disturb 
Had  past  away." — 

SOUTHEY 


Soon  after  my  entrance  upon  clerical  duties,  in 
the  state  of  North-Carolina,  I  was  informed  of  an 
isolated  settlement,  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  place  of  my  residence.  Its  original  elements 
were  emigrants  from  New-England ;  a  father,  and 
his  five  sons,  who,  with  their  wives  and  little  chil- 
dren, had  about  thirty  years  before  become  sojourn- 
ers in  the  heart  of  one  of  the  deepest  Carolinian 
solitudes.  They  purchased  a  tract  of  v/ild,  swamp- 
encircled  land.  This  they  subjected  to  cultivation, 
and  by  unremitting  industry,  rendered  adequate  to 
their  subsistence  and  comfort.  The  sons,  and  the 
sons'  sons,  had  in  their  turn  become  the  fathers  of 
families  ;  so,  that  the  population  of  this  singular  spot 
comprised  five  generations.  They  were  described 
as  constituting  a  peaceful  and  virtuous  community, 
with  a  government  purely  patriarchal.  Secluded 
from  the  privileges  of  public  worship,  it  was  said 
that  a  sense  of  religion,  influencing  the  heart  and 
conduct,  had  been  preserved  by  statedly  assembling 


248 


THE    PATRIARCH. 


on  the  sabbath,  and  reading  the  scriptures,  with  the 
Liturgy  of  the  Church  of  England.  The  pious  an- 
cestor of  the  colony,  whose  years  now  surpassed 
four-score,  had,  at  their  removal  to  this  hermitao-e, 
established  his  eldest  son  in  the  office  of  lay-reader. 
This  simple  ministration,  aided  by  holy  example, 
had  so  shared  the  blessing  of  heaven,  that  all  the 
members  of  this  miniature  commonwealth  held  fast 
the  faith  and  hope  of  the  gospel. 

I  was  desirous  of  visiting  this  peculiar  people,  and 
of  ascertaining  whether  such  precious  fruits  might 
derive  nutriment  from  so  simple  a  root.  A  journey 
into  that  section  of  the  country  afforded  me  an  op- 
portunity.  I  resolved  to  be  the  witness  of  their  Sun- 
day devotions,-  and  with  the  earliest  dawn  of  that 
consecrated  day,  I  left  the  house  of  a  friend,  where 
I  had  lodged,  and  who  furnished  the  requisite  direc- 
tions for  my  solitary  and  circuitous  route. 

The  brightness  and  heat  of  summer  began  to  glow 
oppressively,  ere  I  turned  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
and  plunged  into  the  recesses  of  the  forest.  Tow- 
ering amidst  shades  which  almost  excluded  the  lio-ht 
of  heaven,  rose  the  majestic  pines,  the  glory  and  the 
wealth  of  North-Carolina.  Some,  like  the  palms, 
those  princes  of  the  East,  reared  a  proud  column  of 
fifty  feet,  ere  the  branches  shot  forth  their  heaven- 
ward cone.  With  their  dark  verdure,  mincrled  the 
pale  and  beautiful  efflorescence  of  the  wild  poplar, 
like  the  light  interlacing  of  sculpture,  in  some  an- 
cient awe-inspiring  temple,  while  thousands  of  birds 


THE    PATRIARCH.  249 

from  those  dark  cool  arches,  poured  their  anthems 
of  praise  to  the  Divine  Architect. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  I  arrived 
at  the  morass,  the  bulwark  thrown  by  Nature  around 
this  httle  city  of  the  desert.     Alighting,  1  led  my 
horse  over  the  rude  bridges  of  logs,  which  surmount- 
ed the  pools  and  ravines,  until  our  footing  rested 
upon  firm  earth.     Soon,  an  expanse  of  arable  land 
became  visible,  and  wreaths  of  smoke  came  lightly 
curlinfT  throuo;h   the   trees,  as  if  to  welcome  the 
stranger.     Then,  a  cluster  of  cottages  cheered  the 
eye.     They  were  so  contiguous,  that  the  blast  of  a 
horn,  or  even  the  call  of  a  shrill  voice,  might  con- 
vene all  their  inhabitants.     To  the  central  and  the 
largest  building,  I  directed  my  steps.     Approaching 
the  open  window,  I  heard  a  distinct  manly  voice, 
pronouncing   the   solemn   invocation, — "  By   thine 
agony,  and  bloody  sweat, — by  thy  cross  and  pas- 
sion,— by  thy  precious  death  and  burial, — by  thy 
glorious    resurrection  and   ascension, — and  by  the 
coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost."     The  response  arose, 
fully  and  devoutly,  in  the  deep  accents  of  manhood, 
and  the  softer  tones  of  the  mother  and  her  children. 
Standing  motionless,  that  I  might  not  disturb  the 
worshippers,  I  had  a  fair  view  of  the  lay-reader.  He 
was  a  man  of  six  feet  in  height,  muscular  and  well 
proportioned,  with  a  head  beautifully  symmetrical, 
from  whose  crown  time  had  begun  to  shred  the  lux- 
uriance of  its  raven  locks.    Unconscious  of  the  pre- 
sence of  a  stranger,  he  supposed  that  no  eye  regard- 


2^50  THE    PATRIARCH. 

ed  him,  save  that  of  his  God.  Kneehng  around  him, 
were  his  "  brethren  according  to  the  flesh,"  a  numer- 
ous and  attentive  congregation.  At  his  right  hand 
was  the  Patriarch — tall,  somewhat  emaciated,  j^et 
not  bowed  with  years,  his  white  hair  combed  smooth- 
ly over  his  temples,  and  slightly  curling  on  his  neck. 
Gathered  near  him,  were  his  children,  and  his  chil- 
dren's children.  His  blood  was  in  the  veins  of  al- 
most every  worshipper.  Mingling  with  forms  that 
evinced  the  ravages  of  time  and  toil,  were  the  bright 
locks  of  youth,"  and  the  rosy  brow  of  childhood, 
bowed  low  in  supplication.  Even  the  infant,  with 
hushed  lip,  regarded  a  scene  where  was  no  wander- 
ing glance.  Involuntarily,  my  heart  said, — "  Shall 
not  this  be  a  family  in  Heaven  ?"  In  the  closing 
aspirations,  "  O  Lamb  of  God  !  that  takest  away  the 
sins  of  the  world,  have  mercy  upon  us  !" — the  voice 
of  the  Patriarch  was  heard,  with  strong  and  affect- 
ing emphasis.  After  a  pause  of  silent  devotion,  all 
arose  from  their  knees,  and  I  entered  the  circle. 

"  I  am  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 
I  come  to  bless  you  in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

The  ancient  Patriarch,  grasping  my  hand,  gazed 
on  me  with  intense  earnestness.  A  welcome,  such 
as  words  have  never  uttered,  was  written  on  his 
brow. 

"  Thirty-and-two  years,  has  my  dwelling  been  in 
this  forest.  Hitherto,  no  man  of  God  hath  visited 
us.  Praised  be  his  name,  who  hath  put  it  into  thy 
heart,  to  seek  out  these  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness. 


THE    PATRIARCH.  251 

Secluded  as  we  are,  from  the  privilege  of  worship- 
ping God  in  his  temple,  we  thus  assemble  every  Sab- 
bath, to  read  his  holy  Book,  and  to  pray  unto  him  in 
the  words  of  our  liturgy.  Thus  have  we  been  pre- 
served from  '  forgetting  the  Lord  who  bought  us, 
and  lightly  esteeming  the  Rock  of  our  Salvation.'  " 

The  exercises  of  that  day  are  indelibly  engraven 
on  my  memory.  Are  they  not  written  in  the  record 
of  the  Most  High?  Surely  a  blessing  entered  into 
my  own  soul,  as  I  beheld  the  faith,  and  strengthened 
the  hope  of  those  true-hearted  and  devout  disciples. 
Like  him,  whose  slumbers  at  Bethel  were  visited  by 
the  white-winged  company  of  heaven,  I  was  con- 
strained to  say, — "  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  place, 
and  I  knew  it  not." 

At  the  request  of  the  Patriarch,  I  administered  the 
ordinance  of  baptism.  It  was  received  with  affecting 
demonstrations  of  solemnity  and  gratitude.  The 
sacred  services  were  protracted  until  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  Still  they  seemed  reluctant  to  depart.  It  was  to 
them  a  high  and  rare  festival.  When  about  to  sepa- 
rate, the  venerable  Patriarch  introduced  me  to  all  his 
posterity.  Each  seemed  anxious  to  press  my  hand  ; 
and  even  the  children  expressed,  by  affectionate 
glances,  their  reverence  and  love  for  him  who  min- 
istered at  the  altar  of  God. 

"  The  Almighty,"  said  the  ancient  man,  '*  hath 
smiled  on  these  babes,  born  in  the  desert.  I  came 
hither  with  my  sons  and  their  companions,  and  their 
olessed  mother,  who  hath  gone  to  rest-    God  hath 


252  THE    PATRIARCH. 

given  us  families  as  a  flock.  We  earn  our  bread 
with  toil  and  in  patience.  For  the  intervals  of  labor 
we  have  a  school,  where  our  little  ones  gain  the  ru- 
diments of  knowledge.  Our  only  books  of  instruc- 
tion, are  the  bible  and  prayer-book." 

At  a  signal  they  rose  and  sang,  when  about  de- 
parting to  their  separate  abodes, — "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest,  and  on  earth,  peace,  and  good  will  to- 
wards men."  Never,  by  the  pomp  of  measured 
melody,  was  my  spirit  so  stirred  within  me,  as  when 
that  rustic,  yet  tuneful  choir,  surrounding  the  white- 
haired  father  of  them  all,  breathed  out  in  their  forest 
sanctuary,  "  thou,  that  takest  away  the  sins  of  the 
world,  have  mercy  upon  ws." 

The  following  morning,  I  called  on  every  family, 
and  was  delighted  with  the  domestic  order,  econo- 
my, and  concord,  that  prevailed.  Careful  improve- 
ment of  time,  and  moderated  desires,  seemed  uni- 
formly to  produce  among  them,  the  fruits  of  a  blame- 
less life  and  conversation.  They  conducted  me  to 
their  school.  Its  teacher  was  a  grand-daughter  of 
the  lay-reader.  She  possessed  a  sweet  countenance, 
and  gentle  manners,  and  with  characteristic  simpli- 
city, employed  herself  at  the  spinning-wheel,  when 
not  absorbed  in  the  labors  of  instruction.  Most  of 
her  pupils  read  intelligibly,  and  replied  with  readi- 
ness to  questions  from  Scripture  History.  Writing 
and  arithmetic  were  well  exemplified  by  the  elder 
ones ;  but  those  works  of  science,  with  which  our 
libraries  are  so  lavishly  supplied,  had  not  found  their 


THE    PATRIARCH.  253 

way  to  this  retreat.     But  among  the  learners  was 
visible,  what  does  not  always  distinguish  better  en- 
dowed  seminaries  ;  docility,  subordination,  and  pro- 
found  attention   to  every  precept  and  illustration. 
Habits  of  application  and  a  desire  for  knowledge 
were  infused  into  all.     So  trained  up  were  they  in 
industry,  that  even  the  boys,  in  the  intervals  of  their 
lessons,  were  busily  engaged  in  the  knitting  of  stock- 
ino-s  for  winter.     To  the  simple  monitions  which  I 
addressed  to  them,  they  reverently  listened  ;  and  ere 
they  received  the  parting  blessing,  rose,  and  repeat- 
ed a  few  passages  from  the  inspired  volume,  and 
lifted  up  their  accordant  voices,  chanting,  "  blessed 
be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  for  he  hath  visited  and 
redeemed  his  people." 

\Vhatever  I  beheld  in  this  singular  spot,  served  to 
awaken  curiosity,  or  to  interest  feeling.  All  my 
inquiries  were  satisfied  with  the  utmost  frankness. 
Evidently,  there  was  nothing  which  required  conceal- 
ment. The  heartless  theories  of  fashion,  with  their 
subterfuges  and  vices,  had  not  penetrated  to  this  her- 
metically sealed  abode.  The  Patriarch,  at  his  en- 
trance upon  his  territory,  had  divided  it  into  six  equal 
portions,  reserving  one  for  himself,  and  bestowing 
another  on  each  of  his  five  sons.  As  the  children 
of  the  .colony  advanced  to  maturity,  they,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  contracted  marriages  among 
each  other,  striking  root,  like  the  branches  of  the 
banian,  around  their  parent  tree.  The  domicile  of 
every  family  was  originally  a  rude  cabin  of  logs, 

X 


254  THE    PATRIARCH. 

serving  simply  the  purpose  of  shelter.  In  front  of 
this,  a  house  of  larger  dimensions  was  commenced, 
and  so  constructed,  that  the  ancient  abod^  might 
become  the  kitchen,  when  the  whole  was  com^.leted. 
To  the  occupation  of  building  they  attended  as  they 
were  able  to  command  time  and  materials.  "  We 
keep  it,"  said  one  of  the  colonists,  for  "  handy-w^ork, 
when  there  is  no  farming,  or  turpentine-gathering, 
or  tar-making."  Several  abodes  were  at  that  time, 
in  different  stages  of  progress,  marking  the  links  of 
gradation  between  the  rude  cottage,  and  what  they 
styled  the  "  framed  house."  When  finished,  though 
devoid  of  architectural  elegance,  they  exhibited  ca- 
pabilities of  comfort,  equal  to  the  sober  expectations 
of  a  primitive  people.  A  field  for  corn,  and  a  gar- 
den abounding  with  vegetables,  were  appendages  to 
each  habitation.  Cows  grazed  quietly  around,  and 
sheep  dotted  like  snow-flakes,  the  distant  green  pas- 
tures. The  softer  sex  participated  in  the  business 
of  horticulture,  and  when  necessary,  in  the  labors 
of  harvest,  thus  obtaining  that  vigor  and  muscular 
energy  which  distinguish  the  peasantry  of  Europe, 
from  their  effeminate  sisters  of  the  nobility  and  gen- 
try. Each  household  produced  or  manufactured 
within  its  own  domain  most  of  the  materials  which 
were  essential  to  its  comfort ;  and  for  such  articles 
as  their  plantations  could  not  supply,  or  their  inge- 
nuity construct,  the  pitch-pine  was  their  medium  of 
purchase.  When  the  season  arrived  for  collecting 
its  hidden  treasures,  an  aperture  was  made  in  its 
bark,  and  a  box  inserted,  into  wh'ch  Live  turpentine 


THE    PATRIARCH.  255 

continually  oozed.     Care  was  required  to  preserve 
this   orifice   free  from  the   induration  of  glutinous 
matter.     Thus,  it  must  be  frequently  reopened,  or 
carried  gradually  upward  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  , 
sometimes,  to  such  a  height,  that  a  small  knife  affix- 
ed to  the  extremity  of  a  long  pole,  is  used  for  that 
purpose.     Large  trees  sustain  several  boxes  at  the 
same  time,  though  it  is  required  that  the  continuity 
of  bark  be  preserved,  or  the  tree,  thus  shedding  its 
hfe-blood  at  the  will  of  man,  must  perish.     Though 
the  laborers  in  this  department  are  exceedingly  in- 
dustrious and  vigilant,  there  will  still  be  a  consider- 
able deposit  adhering  to  the  body  of  the  tree.  These 
portions,  called  "  turpentine  facings,"  are  carefully 
separated,  and  laid  in  a  cone-like  form,  until  they 
attain   the  size  of  a  formidable  mound.     This  is 
covered  with  earth,  and  when  the  cool  season  com- 
mences, is  ignited ;  and  the  liquid  tar,  flowing  into 
a  reservoir  prepared  for  it,  readily  obtains  a  market 
among  the  dealers  in  naval  stores. 

Shall  I  be  forgiven  for  such  minuteness  of  detail  1 
So  strongly  did  this  simple  and  interesting  people 
excite  my  affectionate  solicitude,  that  not  even  their 
slightest  concerns  seemed  unworthy  of  attention- 
By  merchants  of  the  distant  town,  who  were  in 
habits  of  traffic  with  them,  I  was  afterwards  inform- 
ed that  they  were  distinguished  for  integrity  and 
uprightness,  and  that  the  simple  affirmation  of  these 
"  Bible  and  Liturgy  men,"  as  they  were  styled,  pos- 
sessed the  sacredness  of  an  oath.  Tlie  lay-reader 
remarked  to  me,  that  he  had  never  known  among 


I 


I 


I 


I 


256  .THE    PATRIARCH. 

his  people,  a  single  instance  of  either  intemperance 
or  profanity. 

"  Our  young  men  have  no  temptations,  and'  the 
old  set  an  unilbrmly  sober  example.  Still,  I  cannot 
but  think  our  freedom  from  vice  is  chiefly  owing  to 
a  sense  of  religious  obligation,  cherished  by  God's 
blessing  upon  our  humble  worship." 

"  Are  there  no  quarrels  or  strifes  among  you  ^" 

"  For  what  should  we  contend  ?  We  have  no 
prospect  of  wealth,  nor  motive  of  ambition.  We 
are  too  busy  to  dispute  about  words.  Are  not  these 
the  sources  of  most  of  the  '  wars  and  fightings' 
among  mankind  ?  Beside,  we  are  all  of  one  blood. 
Seldom  does  any  variance  arise,  which  the  force  of 
brotherhood  may  not  quell.  Strict  obedience  is 
early  taught  in  families.  Children  who  learn  tho- 
roughly the  Bible-lesson  to  obey  and  honor  their 
parents,  are  not  apt  to  be  contentious  in  society,  or 
irreverent  to  their  Father  in  Heaver.  Laws  so 
simple  would  be  inefficient  in  a  mixed  a  id  turbulent 
community.  Neither  could  they  be  effectual  here, 
without  the  aid  of  that  gospel  which  speaketh  peace 
and  prayer  for  His  assistance,  who  "  turneth  the 
hearts  of  the  disobedient  to  the  wisdom  of  the  just." 

Is  it  surprising  that  I  should  take  my  leave,  with 
an  overflowing  heart,  of  the  pious  Patriarch  and  his 
posterity  1 — that  I  should  earnestly  desire  another 
opportunity  of  visiting  their  isolated  domain  ? 

Soon  after  this  period,  a  circumstance  took  place, 
which  they  numbered  among  the  most  interesting 
f  ras  of  their  history.     A  small  chapel  was  erected 


THE    PATRIARCH.  257 

in  the  village  nearest  to  their  settlement.  Though 
at  the  distance  of  many  miles,  they  anticipated  its 
completion  with  delight.  At  its  consecration  by  the 
late  Bishop  Ravenscroft,  as  many  of  the  colonists  as 
found  it  possible  to  leave  home,  determined  to  be 
present.  Few  of  the  younger  ones  had  ever  entered 
a  building  set  apart  solely  for  the  worship  of  God ; 
and  the  days  were  anxiously  counted,  until  they 
should  receive  permission  to  tread  his  courts. 

The  appointed   period  arrived.     Just  before  the 
commencement  of  the  sacred  services  of  dedication, 
a  procession  of  singular  aspect  was  seen  to  wind 
along  amid  interposing  shades.     It  consisted  of  per- 
sons of  both  sexes,  and  of  every  age,  clad  in  a  pri- 
mitive style,  and  advancing  with  solemn  order.     I 
recognized  my  hermit  friends,  and  hastened  onward 
to  meet  them.  Scarcely  could  the  ancient  Jews,  when 
from  distant  regions  they  made  pilgrimage  to  their 
glorious  hill  of  Zion,  have  testified  more  touching 
emotion,  than  these  guileless  worshippers,  in  passing 
the  threshold   of  this  humble  temple  to  Jehovah. 
When  the  sweet  tones  of  a  small  organ,  mingling 
with  the  voices  of  a  select  choir,  gave  "  glory  to  the 
Father,  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  as  it  was 
in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be,  world 
without  end,"  the  young  children  of  the  forest  start- 
ed from  their  seats  in  wondering  joy,  while  the 
changing  color,  or  quivering  lip  of  the  elders,  evin- 
ced that"  the  hallowed  music  awjke  the  cherished 

echoes  of  memory. 

X2 


253  THE    PATRIARCH. 

But  with  what  breathless  attention  did  they  hang 
on  every  word  of  Bishop  Ravenscroft,  as  with  his 
own  peculiar  combination  of  zeal  and  tenderness,  he 
illustrated  the  inspired  passage  which  he  had  chosen, 
or  with  a  sudden  rush  of  strong  and  stormy  eloquence 
broke  up  the  fountains  of  the  soul !  Listening  and 
weeping,  they  gathered  up  the  manna,  which  an 
audience  satiated  with  the  bread  of  heaven,  and  pro- 
digal  of  angels'  food,  might  have  suffered  to  perish. 
With  the  hoary  Patriarch,  a  throng  of  his  descend- 
ants, who  had  been  duly  prepared  for  that  holy  vow 
and  profession,  knelt  around  the  altar,  in  commem- 
oration of  their  crucified  lledeemer. 

At  the  close  of  the  communion  service,  when  about 
to  depart  to  his  home,  the  white-haired  man  drew 
near  to  the  Bishop.  Gratitude  for  the  high  privileges 
in  which  he  had  participated ;  reverence  for  the  fa- 
ther in  God,  whom  he  had  that  day  for  the  first  time 
beheld ;  conviction  that  his  aged  eyes  could  but  a 
little  longer  look  on  the  things  of  time ;  conscious- 
ness  that  he  might  scarcely  expect  again  to  stand 
amid  these  his  children,  to  "  behold  the  tair  beauty 
of  the  Lord,  and  to  inquire  in  his  temple,"  over- 
whelmed his  spirit.  Pressing  the  hand  of  the  Bishop, 
and  raising  his  eyes  heavenward,  he  said, — "  Lord  ! 
now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for 
mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation." 

Bishop  Ravenscrofl:  fixed  on  him  one  of  those 
piercing  glances  which  seemed  to  read  the  soul ;  and 
then  tears,  Hke  large  rain-drops  stood  upon  his  cheeks. 
Recovering  from  his  emotion,  he  pronounced,  with 


\ 


THE    PATRIARCH.  2-59 

affectionate  dignity,  the  benediction,  "  the  Lord  bless 
thee  and  keep  thee ;  the  Lord  make  his  face  to  shine 
upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ;  the  Lord  Uft 
up  his  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee  peace." 

The  Patriarch,  bowing  down  a  head,  heavy  with 
the  snows  of  more  than  fourscore  winters,  breathed 
a  thanksgiving  to  God,  and  turned  homeward,  follow- 
ed by  airhis  kindred.  Summer  had  glided  away  ere 
it  was  in  my  power  again  to  visit  the  "  lodge  in  the 
wilderness."  As  I  was  taking  in  the  autumn  twilight 
my  lonely  walk  for  meditation,  a  boy  of  rustic  ap- 
pearance, approaching  with  hasty  steps,  accosted  me. 

"  Our  white-haired  father,  the  father  of  us  all,  lies 
stretched  upon  his  bed.  He  takes  no  bread  or  water, 
and  he  asks  for  you.     Man  of  God,  will  you  come 

to  him  1" 

Scarcely  had  I  signified  assent,  ere  he  vanished. 
With  the  light  of  the  early  morning,  I  commenced 
my  journey.  Autumn  had  infused  chillness  into  the 
atmosphere,  and  somewhat  of  tender  melancholy 
into  the  heart.  Nature  seems  to  regard  with  sadness 
the  passing  away  of  the  glories  of  summer,  and  to 
robe  herself  as  if  for  humiliation. 

As  the  sun  increased  in  power,  more  of  cheerful- 
ness overspread   the   landscape.     The  pines  were 
busily  disseminating  their  winged  seeds.     Like  m- 
sects,  with  a  floating  motion,  they  spread  around  for 
II  miles.     Large   droves  of  swine  made  their  repast 

upon  this  half  ethereal  food.  How  mindful  is  Nature 
of  even  her  humblest  pensioners  ! 

As  I  approached  the  cluster  of  cottages,  which 
now  assumed  the  appf^arance  of  a  village,  the  eldest 


260  THE    PATRIARCH 

son  advanced  to  meet  me.  His  head  declined  like 
one  strucrijlino:  with  a  grief  which  he  would  fain  sub- 
due.  Taking  my  hand  in  both  of  his,  he  raised  it 
to  his  lips.  Neither  of  us  spoke  a  word.  It  was 
written  clearly  on  his  countenance,  "  Come  quickly, 
ere  he  die." 

Together  we  entered  the  apartment  of  the  good 
Patriarch.  One  glance  convinced  me  that  he  was 
not  long  to  be  of  our  company.  His  posterity  were 
gathered  around  him  in  sorrow  ; 

"  For  drooping, — sickening, — dying,  they  began, 
Whom  they  ador'd  as  God,  to  mourn  as  man." 

He  was  fearfully  emaciated,  but  as  I  spake  of  the 
Saviour,  who  "  went  not  up  to  joy,  until  he  first  suf- 
fered pain,"  his  brow  again  lighted  with  the  calm- 
ness of  one,  whose  "  way  to  eternal  j.oy  was  to  suf- 
fer with  Christ,  whose  door  to  eternal  life  gladly  to 
die  with  him." 

Greatly  comforted  by  prayer,  he  desired  that  the 
holy  communion  might  be  once  more  administered 
to  him,  and  his  children.  There  was  a  separation 
around  his  bed.  Those  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  partake  with  him,  drew  near,  and  knelt  around 
the  dying.  Fixing  his  eye  on  the  others,  he  said, 
with  an  energy  of  tone  which  v/o  thought  had  for- 
saken him, — "WzZZ  ye  thus  be  divided,  at  the  last 
day  V     A  burst  of  wailing  grief  vi'^as  the  reply. 

Never  will  that  scene  be  effaced  from  my  remem- 
hranco  :  the  expressive  features,  and  thrilling  re- 
sponses, of  the  Patriarch,  into  whose  expiring  body 
the  soul  returned  with  power,  that  it  might  leave  this 
last  testimony  of  faith  and  hope  to  those  whom  he 


THE    PATRIARCH.  261 

loved,  are  among  the  unfading  imagery  of  my  exist- 
ence. The  spirit  seemed  to 'rekindle  more  and  more, 
in  its  last  lingerings  around  the  threshold  of  time.  In 
a  tone,  whose  clearness  and  emphasis  surprised  us, 
the  departing  saint  breathed  forth  a  blessing  on  those 
who  surrounded  him,  in  the  "  name  of  that  God, 
whose  peace  passeth  all  understanding." 

There  was  an  interval,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  slumber.     Whispers  of  hope  were  heard  around 
his  couch,  that  he  might  wake  and  be  refreshed.   At 
length,  his  eyes  slowly  unclosed.  They  were  glazed 
and  deeply  sunken  in  their  sockets.  Their  glance  was 
long  and  kind  upon  those  who  hung  over  his  pillow. 
His  lips  moved,  but  not  audibly.  Bowing  my  ear  more 
closely,  I  found  that  he  was  speaking  of  Him  who  is 
the  "  resurrection  and  the  life."  A  slight  shuddering 
passed  over  his  frame,  and  he  was  at  rest,  for  ever. 
A  voice  of  weeping  arose  from  among  the  children, 
v/ho  had  been  summoned  to  the  bed  of  death.  Ere  I  had 
attempted  consolation,  the  lay- reader  with  an  unfalter- 
ing tone  pronounced,  "  the  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away  :  blessed  he  the  name  of  the  Lord:' 
Deep  silence  ensued.     It  seemed  as  if  every  heart 
was  installing  him  who  spake,  in  the  place  of  the 
father  and  the  governor  who  had  departed.     It  was 
a  spontaneous  acknowledgment  of  the  right  of  pri- 
mogeniture, which  no  politician  could  condemn.  He 
stood  among  them,  in  the  simple  majesty  of  his  birth- 
right, a  ruler  and  priest  to  guide  his  people  in  the 
way  everlasting.  It  was  as  if  the  mantle  of  an  arisen 


i 


262  THE    PATRIARCH. 

my  servant  whom  I  have  chosen."  Every  eye  fixed 
upon  him  its  expression  "of  fealty  and  love.  Gra- 
dually the  families  retired  to  their  respective  habita- 
tions. Each  individual  paused  at  the  pillow  of  the 
Patriarch,  to  take  a  silent  farewell ;  and  some  of  the 
little  ones  climbed  up  to  kiss  the  marble  face. 

T  was  left  alone  with  the  lay-reader,  and  with  the 

dead.     The  enthusiasm  of  the  scene  had  fled,  and 

I         the  feelings  of  a  son  triumphed.     Past  years  rushed 

like  a  tide  over  his  memory.     The  distant,  but  un- 

!         dimmed  impressions  of  infancy  and  childhood, — the 

!         planting  of  that  once  wild  waste, — the  changes  of 

I 

I  those  years  which  had  sprinkled  his  temples  with  gray 
hairs, — all,  with  their  sorrows  and  their  joys,  came 
back,  associated  with  the  lifeless  image  of  his  belov- 
ed sire.  In  the  bitterness  of  bereavement,  he  cover- 
ed his  face,  and  wepl.  That  iron  frame  which  had 
borne  the  hardening  of  more  than  half  a  century, 
shook,  like  the  breast  of  an  infant,  when  it  sobs 
out  its  sorrows.  I  waited  until  the  first  shock  of 
grief  had  subsided.  Then,  passing  my  arm  gently 
within  his,  I  repeated,  "  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 
saying, — '  Write,  from  henceforth,  blessed  are  the 
dead,  who  die  in  the  Lord.'  "  Instantly  raising  him- 
self upright,  he  responded  in  a  voice  whose  deep 
inflictions  sank  into  my  soul,  "  Even  so,  saith  the 
spirit,  for  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and  their  works 
do  follow  them." 

I  remained  to  attend  the  funeral  obsequies  of  the 
Patriarch.  In  tne  heart  of  their  territory  was  a 
shady  dell,  sacred  to  the  dead.  It  was  surrounded 
by  a  neat  inclosure,  and  planted  with  trees.     The 


THE    PATRIARCH.  26^ 

drooping  branches  of  a  willow,  swept  the  grave  of 
the  mother  of  the  colony.  Near  her,  slumbered  hei 
youngest  son.  Several  other  mounds  swelled  around 
them,  most  of  which,  by  their  small  size,  told  of  the 
smitten  flowers  of  infancy.  To  this  goodly  compa- 
ny, we  bore  him,  who  had  been  revered  as  the  father 
and  exemplar  of  all.  With  solemn  steps,  his  de- 
scendants, two  and  two,  followed  the  corpse.  I 
heard  a  convulsive  and  suppressed  breathing,  among 
the  more  tender  of  the  train  ;  but  when  the  burial- 
service  commenced,  all  was  hushed.  And  never 
have  I  more  fully  realized  its  surpassing  pathos  and 
power,  than  when  from  the  centre  of  that  deep  soli- 
tude, on  the  bnnk  of  that  waiting  grave,  it  poured 
forth  its  consolation. 

"  Man,  that  is  born  of  woman,  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up 
and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower.  He  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay.  In  the 
midst  of  life,  we  are  in  death.  Of  whom  may  we 
seek  succor  but  of  thee.  Oh  Lord  ! — who  for  our  sins 
art  justly  displeased  1  Yet,  O  Lord  God  most  holy 
— O  God  most  mighty, — O  holy  and  most  merciful 
Saviour,  deliver  us  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of  eternal 
death.  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts, 
shut  not  thy  most  merciful  ears  to  our  prayers,  but 
spare  us,  O  Lord  most  holy, — O  God  most  mighty, 
— O  holy  and  merciful  Saviour, — suffer  us  not,  at  our 
last  hour,  for  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from  thee."  ^, 

Circumstances  compelled  me  to  leave  this  mourn- 
mg  community  immediately  after  committing  tha 
dust  of  their  pious  ancestor  to  the  earth.     They  ac 


! 


?6i  THE    PATRIARCH. 

companied  me  to  some  distance  on  my  journey,  and 
our  parting  was  with  mutual  tears.  Turnmg  to 
view  them,  as  their  forms  mingled  with  the  dark 
green  of  the  forest,  I  heard  the  faint  echo  of  a  clear 
voice.  It  was  the  lay-reader,  speaking  of  the  hope 
of  the  resurrection  :  "  If  we  believe  that  Christ  died 
and  rose  again,  even  so  them  also,  that  sleep  in 
Jesus,  will  God  bring  with  him." 

Full  of  thought,  I  pursued  my  homeward  way.  I 
inquired,  is  Devotion  never  encumbered,  or  impeded 
by  the  splendor  that  surrounds  herl  Amid  the 
lofty  cathedral , — the  throng  of  rich-stoled  worship- 
pers,— the  melody  of  the  solemn  organ, — does  that 
incense  never  spend  itself  upon  the  earth,  that  should 
rise  to  heaven  ?  On  the  very  beauty  and  glory  of 
its  ordinances,  may  not  the  spirit  proudly  rest,  and 
go  more  forth  to  the  work  of  benevolence,  nor  spread 
its  wing  at  the  call  of  faith  ? 

Yet  surely,  there  is  a  reality  in  religion^  though 
man  may  foolishly  cheat  himself  witli  the  shadow. 
Here  T  have  beheld  it  in  simplicity,  disrobed  of"  all 
pomp  and  circumstance,"  yet  with  powder  to  soothe 
the  passions  into  harmony,  to  maintain  the  virtues 
in  daily  and  vigorous  exercise,  and  to  give  victory 
to  the  soul,  when  death  vanquishes  the  body.  So, 
I  took  the  lesson  to  my  heart,  and  when  it  has  lan- 
guished or  grown  cold,  I  have  warmed  it  by  the  ix^- 
membrance  of  the  ever-living  faith,  of  those  "  few 
sheep  in  the  wilderness." 

THE  END.    . 


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C.  L.  F.  Pauckoucke.  New  edition,  in  one  volume, 
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of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  into  the  world,  we  have  not  J 
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> 


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Some  said,  It  mi  ;lit  do  good  ;  others  said,  No." 

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MILTON  AND  YOUNG. 

Containing  Paradise  Lost,  in  twelve  parts,  by 
John  Milton  ;— -and  Night  Thoughts  on  Life, 
Death  and  Lmmortality  ;  to  which  is  added. 
The  Force  of  Religion,  by  Edward  Young, 
D.  D.  I 

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